


Mad World

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arkham Asylum, Arkham Visits, Dadwald, Ed’s Disdain for Children is Futile When it Comes to Martin, Everyone is Fond of Martin, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Reconciliation, Redefining Family Values by Gotham’s Standards, Referenced Past Drug Abuse, Resolved IsabellA Dilemma, S4 Ivy & Os Never Turned Sour, Season/Series 04, Selina’s Guilt, Slow Burn, The Iceberg Lounge, The Narrows, auditory hallucinations, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-13 09:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: In an attempt to hide Martin from the clutches of Sofia and the Sirens, Oswald decides to hide him in plain sight — effectively altering the lives of all of those involved.





	1. When People Run in Circles

**Author's Note:**

> This diverges somewhere around 4x09. Some events still happen, for continuity's sake, but a brunt of this stems from being exhausted by the events in 4x10/11. I hope you enjoy.

"I’m not in this line of business to make deals with depraved sociopaths," Lee says, lifting the flask to her lips, offering a cheap gin sting to the back of her throat. She watches on from the nosebleeds as Ed makes his way on ‘stage’, side-eyeing her guest as the show starts, canting her head in Ed's direction, "I’m surprised you’re not here demanding for him to be handed over."

"He’s no longer my concern, and hardly a threat," despite the claim, Oswald tuts, then groans about the choice of attire, mutters about Ed’s preference towards mediocre insults as the show prattles on. If he had known the act was still a reoccurring Narrows headline, he might have gotten Fries to deliver Lee to the Lounge instead.

At some point Ed glances up from the ring, no doubt anticipating he'd see Lee, not the subject of present mockery, causing him to stutter through Grundy’s introduction. Oswald breaks from the brief contact, an all-too nostalgic agony resonating through him.

He turns away from the spectacle in time to watch Lee take another shot. He leans against the railing, crossing his arms as the bellows from below echo around them. The distinct, nauseating sound of flesh being ripped from its proper place forcing Lee to rotate away too.

"You haven’t even heard my proposition," Oswald comments, hoping that the hired muscle at either staircase will ward off Ed’s curiosity long enough to circumvent sharing an interaction.

"I don’t need to know what it is."

"I’ll ensure you’re rewarded generously for your efforts."

"Is that what you promised Cherry?” Lee peers over her shoulder to watch Grundy proceed to beat an already unconscious man with his own leg, the typical chant overtaking the warehouse, then directs her attention back to Oswald, "sure backfired on her, didn’t it? I’m not interested in losing the same battle."

"I’m not here to offer you the position of an informant, Doctor Thompkins. I have much more respect for you than that."

"We’re not close, Oswald."

"I beg to differ," he tilts back against the metal, stretching out tired muscles with a sigh. "You and I are more intertwined than ever before. You stand as the leader to this impecunious place, I stand as your potential benefactor."

"We don’t need your money."

"Everyone needs money," Oswald gibs, raising an arm to pull back the sleeve of his overcoat to pointedly check the time.

"It’s not your best bargaining chip."

"How do you intend to continue your practice with inadequate medical supplies?" Something unsettling flutters up Oswald’s spine. He’s already been here too long, with too many wayward glances, even if he and Lee were shrouded by the dimly lit section of the balcony. Ed had noticed him, others would too. Anxiousness elevated also due to the absent call from Victor concerning Sofia’s location, and he’s grown impatient with Lee’s dismissive tone. "How’s this? I will ensure your," Oswald rotates a finger in the air, " _venue_  stays afloat, by not restricting liquor deliveries. I will also refrain from mentioning to Jim Gordon your whereabouts, or about your new role."

Lee’s brows furrow, tensing entirely, fully turning to face Oswald. "None of what you’re offering gives you anything in return. What do you want out of this arrangement? Keep in mind, I’m not giving you access to Butch, or Ed."

"Your sister-in-law intends to use a child as a pawn against me, I need to keep him safe."

Lee did not expect that. "Sofia would come looking for him."

"To find him under the same roof with two men who have tried to kill me and a populace that dreams of my head on a stake?” Oswald counters.

"The Narrows is no place for a child."

"Yet, it’s overrun with them."

Lee was already considering saying yes, agreement enlightened by the notion that Oswald was even capable of harbouring concern for someone else’s preservation. The fact Oswald knew Lee’s fondness for the security of a child would make her his most valuable ally, did not go overlooked. This was an enormous risk, getting in bed with the Narrows’ most hated, would put her life, as well as Ed and Grundy’s in jeopardy.

Although... this could also work in their favour. It was a liability that would keep them well-guarded. Oswald would likely make a point of never stepping foot in the Narrows again, but he’d do everything in his power to keep the child safe—and by proxy, the trio.

"How old is he?” Lee relents, shoulders relaxing.

"He’s only nine.” The shift in Oswald’s tone, to a level of softness and adoration Lee has never heard, added a line to the list of Oswald’s unimaginable traits. "His name is Martin, he suffers from mutism, but it does not hinder his methods of communication. He’s brilliant for his age, reads at a level years ahead of his peers. He’s allergic to most plants and nuts, enjoys sweets, but isn’t a fan of salt, has an affinity for tactful manipulation, something I was hoping we could continue to hone in on—" at Lee’s look of disapproval, Oswald shakes his head, "—he would do well with homeschooling. I’ve just found out he enjoys playing the piano, I can have one delivered—"

"Oswald, I’m already sold on the idea without the story."

"You misunderstand. These are all pertinent details I need you to know to leave you appropriately equipped to take care of him. I won’t be able to see him again," Lee feels a tinge of sympathy for how Oswald’s brows crease, eyes brimming with tears. "Please, just keep him safe. Anything you need," Oswald pulls a burner phone from his pocket, handing it to her, "simply send a message and Mr Penn will see to it that it’s taken care of."

(It would prove to be just  _that_  easy, Lee notes several days after the fact when she runs out of acetaminophen and propofol, a quick text, and less than an hour later her cabinet is stocked.)

"What is he doing here?" A familiar voice hisses, forcing Oswald to go rigid.

 _Yes_ , he’d been there too long. Oswald glances over to the staircase closest to the ring, watching as the lifeless heap of one his hired help crumbles down the remaining steps. 

"Ed—" Lee starts, outstretching an arm as he tries to pass her.

"You need to leave, now _._ If you think for one second you’ll be able to make an example out of me, I say two words and the big guy—" Ed points with a thumb over his shoulder to the carnage Grundy has left behind in the ring, "will see to it—"

"For once _,_ the world does not turn solely for Ed Nygma," Oswald interjects, woefully cognizant of Edward’s ever transparent disdain for him. With absolute sincerity, he continues, facing the doctor, "you have my thanks, Lee," before taking his leave with his remaining entourage from the opposing staircase.

Ed gapes, watching the group depart, "what did you get us into?"

"At this point, I don’t even know."

This was how she ended up with Victor Zsasz in her office later that evening, a terrified young boy clutching the assassin’s wrist as he explained who _‘the nice lady was_ ’. Lee thought it might have been too much for one day, from Oswald’s own regard for this child to a notorious psychopath treating him with unexpected delicacy, further explaining she would be the one to take care of him, Martin nodding in response, giving what was likely a squeeze of thanks to Zsasz before letting go, and trotting towards her.

"Boss is putting a lot of faith in you, Doc," Zsasz states, defined by a threatening edge, as he pointedly glances over at Ed looming behind her. "Don’t let him down."


	2. Sit and Listen, Sit and Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trio & Martin get acquainted.

"He's just so..." Ed starts, flint-eyed, rotating his hands in front of himself, angling them towards Martin. " _Tiny_."

"Yes, most children are." Lee wonders if Ed has  _ever_ taken care of a child before, "do you not have siblings?"

"Only child." He replies frankly, now wanting to clarify the circumstances surrounding their newest addition, questions sifting between him and Lee.

Lee seems to sense his curiosity, tossing him an amused look with the slight cant of her head, daring him to ask. Things like why had Victor Zsasz left a child in Lee’s care. But _,_ that would also result in finding out those were the terms agreed upon from Oswald’s earlier presence in the Narrows. That would turn into talking about Oswald in general, and they’d successfully foregone the topic entirely since he had arrived there.

Lee had tried, quite a number of times, in fact, stating it was necessary information to make a complete diagnosis of whatever had been occurring with Ed’s brain. 

Edward had seen no benefit in picking at scabbed wounds, and Lee gave up after a few weeks of asking. As he assumed, it did nothing to his recuperation period, Lee stating at this point it was all psychological. He still hadn't properly digested that blight of information, given this recent intrusion. 

So, he settled on, “where is he even going to sleep?”

"I figured you wouldn’t mind offering up your bed while we make other arrangements?” Lee offered, her grin exemplified by the indignified sound that came from the back of Ed’s throat. “I’m joking. Penguin had movers drop off furniture for him earlier.”

Ed grimaces, irritated by the fact Oswald had likely scheduled the movers before even confirming if Lee would say _yes_ , because he knew she would, “we’re not a daycare.”

"It’s safer for him here," Lee eyes the bottle of alcohol on the table, then Martin, who’d been watching the two interact awkwardly from the place Zsasz had left him. She pulls the bottle from its spot, properly securing its cap, and then tossing it into her open desk drawer, tapping it shut with her foot.

"Compared to that fortress of a club? How is this logical?"

"It just is."

"Lee, I understand you want to balance the scales in your quest for karmic retribution, but this child isn’t—"

" _Martin_  is no longer up for discussion." Lee's fingers tap impatiently against the armrest of her chair. She had already guessed it would be a struggle to have Ed accept this arrangement, but Oswald didn’t go to him, he'd gone to her.

Ed sighs deliberately loud, rolling his eyes until they land on the child, scrutinizing his attire. "He’s going to need to change, running around the Narrows looking like a miniature-Oswald won’t do us any favours."

Martin perks up at this, pursing his lips as he scrambles to reach for the pad around his neck, scrawling over the paper with his pen. Ed looks from the movement to Lee, "why is he?"

"I’m sorry Martin, but Ed’s right. Your outfit would draw too much attention, it’s worth more than the average person's annual salary here," Lee says, Ed turning his head in time to read: ‘ _I like the way I look,’_  before Martin starts writing away at another sheet.

Ed mutters an  _'oh, bother_ _'_   by how long this is taking, although his facial features soften at this revelation, finding it fitting _why_ Oswald would take in a stray of this calibre. Martin turns the pad over, facing it towards Lee,  _'they were a gift.'_

"We will keep them safe for when the opportunity arises you can wear them again," Lee's smile falters at the next text,  _'for when he comes back?'_ She's not sure how to answer, whispers of Sofia's crusade to knock Oswald off his perch near its nigh.

Martin seems unsettled by the lack of response, shifting closer to the desk with a number of small steps, rolling over the papers of his pad till he finds the piece he's looking for. A small smile raises his cheeks, tearing the sheet from its home, and placing it on the desk, sliding it towards Lee with the difficulty it imposes from his lack of height. She leans over the desk to take it from where he could reach, studying it, not sure if she should frown or grin.

Ed steps in, plucking the paper from Lee's grasp, glowering over the piece. A stick figure image of Oswald and Martin, dressed in the same suit, Martin seated on what could only be assumed as the throne from the Iceberg Lounge. Oswald at his side. The image itself might have been juvenile in design, but the effect was all the same, rancorously conjuring a photograph in his mind of the moment shared.

"He's a plant," Ed mutters after several moments, flicking the paper into the space between himself and Martin. "He's going to bring about your demise and I won't let myself, or Grundy be caught in the crossfire."

"That's too bad," Lee aids Martin in reaching for the sheet, coming up from her chair to circle the desk, picking it up from the centre of it, where it landed just barely out of his reach. She situates herself in front of him, placing it in his waiting hands, as he shoots Ed a bemusedly vicious glare. "You and Grundy are going to be the ones to take care of him."

"What? That's a worse idea than taking him on to begin with," Ed attempts to refrain from his biting tone but is becoming increasingly incapable of doing so. He's reminded of their earlier discussion, Lee taking an onus on hiding her analysis of his post-frozen health from him, and now this. She hadn't asked his opinion on taking in a child, let alone him being responsible forthwith of Martin's well-being. All of this coming to mind, but he can only counter with, "Grundy might crush him."

The third mention of his name brings Grundy down the hall in the same span of time it takes Lee to start to tell Martin, _'he looks a little different than normal people—'_ Martin's eyes widen as Grundy practically breaks through the door, moving quickly to wrap his small arms around Lee's pant leg, hiding behind her. Lee palms down the side of her face, reaching back to place her other hand comfortingly on top of Martin's head. It doesn't help that Grundy has done a poor job of cleaning himself up after the earlier match, his sleeveless shirt soaked in blood and excrement. 

"Grundy, what have we said about doors?" Lee asks, already mentally adding the cost of this to the renovations so far completed on multiple pieces of ruined infrastructure. 

"Use door...knobs," Grundy pauses, brows knitted as he tilts his head to look at the guest folded around Lee. He points towards Martin, who continues to try to make himself as small as possible behind her. "Who is boy with pretty lady?"

"This is Martin," Lee introduces, trying to peel him away from her. "Martin is our _friend_ ," Lee stresses the word, watching the nod that Grundy makes as a measure of understanding. "Martin is Ed's friend, my friend, and your friend. You must take care of him, okay?"

"Mar-tiiii- _teen_ ," Grundy moves hastily towards them, which only causes Martin to flinch, and pinch Lee's knee in the process  _'s_ _on-of-a—'_   she starts, before cutting herself off due to present young company. Grundy halts, "new friend, scared?"

Lee glances over to Ed, who's remained eerily silent during their meeting, arms crossed, the purse of his lips in place. There's a brief roll of her eyes as a loud thud surprises the three of them, Grundy giving Martin a pleading look from the change of position on his knees, a hand raised in the air between them.

Slowly but surely, Martin comes out of hiding, walking the short span towards him, reassured by the proximity of Lee behind him. He holds out his hand to take Grundy's, who seems perfectly capable of repressing any excess strength with the movement, allowing Martin to lead the brief handshake. Ed should've been reeling in the hilarity that it was even possible for Grundy to exude so much restraint.

"This is going to end poorly." Ed breaks his silence, arms still crossed as he moves towards the office door, paying no heed to the scene next to him.

"I don't want to hear it. You and Grundy are going to take him for a tour around the complex. Tell him the places he can and can't go, realistically he won't be leaving the apartment, but you can show him where the clinic is, and explain that the door to the warehouse is strictly off-limits."

Ed's arms are up in a huff at the notion he really is being tasked to babysit, rebuttal at his disposal, but the opportunity to argue is briskly cut off by one of Lee's welcomed bar staff, who had shown herself in by using the alternate door to the office. Ed grumbles incoherently as he and Grundy begin the short haul around the building. It's late enough that there isn't anyone to question the arrival of such a well-dressed boy, let alone why Ed and Grundy are escorting him from place to place.

 _'Food, there!'_ Grundy points from door to door, with use of his minimal vocabulary and a free hand, the other wrapped around the entirety of Martin's hand. Ed following behind, with a considerable amount of distance. They pass the locker room, Ed using the chance to evade their tour to allow himself time to breathe.

Martin being there was disruptive enough to the construct of a life Ed had been content to accept. The existence of any affiliation with Oswald created a link over the expanse of the rift he had been attempting to sever entirely, ever certain he wouldn't have to entertain their mutual animosity for at least another couple of months.

He gravitates towards the sink, removing his glasses to rest them against the sink's ledge as he sulked over the last few hours worth of events. How could Lee be so blind? This was a  _disaster_ waiting to unfold.

The musty smell of the bathroom is nothing compared to the ill-maintained filtered water as he splashes it over his face, attempting to dab away the lingering resentment of how any of this came to be, with the cloth from the side of the sink. Disdain only heightened by the constant reminder that came with Martin simply being around. Eyes dart up from the sink to the mirror, widening at the grinning self-hallucination in the glass, body suddenly heavy and frozen in place.

No,  _no_ , it's just a day's worth of events fencing him in, he's  _still_ in control, not that the thought stops him from confirming it out loud, screaming at the taunt the aberration shoves back.

Another lecture of how much  _better_  everything would be under  _his_ control—

Ed doesn't notice the pull at his blazer until he delivers another scream at the mirror to find there is no illusion there to retaliate, only Grundy in the background, and with the tilt of his head, finds it's Martin's grip on his worn blazer. The worried look of a nine-year-old Ed hadn't spent a second thus far treating nicely, helped to slow his breathing, this same child taking Ed's hand into his, squeezing tight, was enough to vacate his mind of all malevolent intent.

All of it enough for Ed to be reminded that this could _truly_ only end poorly.


	3. I Find It Hard To Tell You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee and Ed discuss the change in management of Gotham's underworld.

"Are you just going to mope around for hours on end?" Lee asks, beginning their mid-afternoon ritual of leafing through old articles in the Gotham Gazette, before settling on a crossword from eight months prior.

"Yes, those were my exact plans." Ed didn't bother being discreet as he ripped out an opinion piece on the ever-changing criminal climate in the city, specifically highlighting Oswald's success with the Iceberg Lounge. "' _Visionary'_ , what a farce."

"Why don't you make yourself useful and assign Martin some homework, or create a teaching plan with him?" Lee slides the crossword across the desk towards him, watching as he pockets the newspaper clipping. "Also, I'm fairly certain I've heard you call Oswald a visionary even before you two were close. An instance comes to mind at the precinct—"

Ed's glare is enough to cause an interruption, gaze flickering to examine the puzzle in front of him, solving seven of the blank answers, and pushing it back, "Martin seems to be doing just fine with Grundy."

"Except he's the one teaching Grundy, at a level four years his junior, that's not productive."

"Then send him back where he came from. I'm sure they—"  _Oswald_ "—have no issue hiring a tutor. Or, get one of the goons from the bar to do it."

"The more people who know he's here, the increased likelihood the _wrong_ person finds out," Lee takes a stab at the crossword in front of her, passing it back to Ed as she solves four rows and five columns. "How did you miss Orion's Belt?"

"Still not one hundred percent, despite your diagnosis, Doc." Ed's eyes slide shut, before snapping open to answer the line that had been eluding him, spelling it out as he wrote it in. "P-E-A-C-E-M-A-K-E-R."

"Was that in reference to the handgun, the movie, or the pacifist group?"

"None of the above. A bomber that operated from 1946 to 1959, largest mass-produced piston-engined aircraft ever built." Ed prattled, pencilling in several other answers, before turning it over, stretching his palm across the backside of the sheet. "We need to talk about you taking in Martin."

"It's  _still_ not up for debate."

"At least send him away, or something." _Anywhere else in the country, or another continent entirely, would suffice._

"No."

Ed wasn't entirely sure what he expected, Martin had been a sour subject for both sides. Lee was opposed to anything other than keeping Martin where he was, and Ed was beside himself trying to understand why. Grundy had taken on the brunt of responsibilities with the child, subsequently taking up most of the brute's time during the day.

Lee had resolved to terminate their active participation in fight night, as it didn't fit particularly well in her ' _business_ ' plan for the Narrows. One that included proper health care reform with the aid of the lump sum Mr Penn had deposited in her account a handful of days prior, as well as setting up a unit for addictions. Still, Lee promised to throw a monthly rumble with Grundy as the headliner, to continue a tradition that seemed to boost morale.

"Gianna is threatening to pull her territories from the treaty if you don't pay out the debt Cherry owed to her." Ed steers the topic to the items he'd committed to memory from earlier in the morning, after learning one of the bar staff had been held at knife-point the previous evening. "Cherry's debt is not yours to bear."

"Pay her off."

"That's not normally how to negotiate terms."

"It's the quickest way to a resolution." Lee shrugs, overcome with the need for a stronger drink than the questionable glass of water on her desk. "Gianna is a useful ally to have."

"Everyone knows your connection to the Falcone name. Gianna isn't exactly a devotee of the family, you give her what she wants, she'll just keep coming back for more, knowing you're so lenient."

"And your suggestion is... _what_ , exactly?"

"Settle on half, as a sign of good faith. Summon her here, show her some of that Thompkins hospitality."

"I'll take that under advisement." It hadn't been an immediate dismissal as had been their usual stance, although it was mostly due to a lack of murder in Ed's approach. Lee noted the curl of Ed's fingers into his palm, then as they relaxed. Lately, the air had been tenser between them, and it might have been time to be consistently honest, rather than sidelining items until they became relevant. "I can't send Martin back where he came from, even if I wanted to."

"What do you mean?"

Lee's not sure how to broach this, how to gauge whether it's better to rip the band-aid off via a simple explanation or circle the wound before its puncture. Either way, she'd already seen the fracture in Ed's composure as of late, seen the tremble that came with small irritations, the way he'd exhale a breath on entering most rooms as if quietening himself. She had also seen the calm that came with Martin in the room, witnessed their small interactions, the smile Ed hid behind a scowl when Martin would try to garner his attention. Little things that Lee was trying to decide if they meant Ed was miles away from his previous life, or if he'd been looking for a reason to re-adopt a specific persona.

She takes a second to rise from her chair, walking the distance around the desk to close the door to her office, turning to see Ed has watched her move every step of the way.

"Penguin's been sent to Arkham."

She can tell it's not what Ed predicted, the way his lip and the edge of his eye twitch simultaneously, his mouth agape, words failing him. Can tell it's not just a band-aid she's ripped off, but a scar that was no closer to healing than if she hadn't said anything at all. Arkham was a pit of nightmares, Ed's half-a-year experience of its horrors were memories he'd likely subdued. Even she understood this, her own Arkham participation had felt like an eternity ago.

"That's not possible."

Ed's apparent disbelief has him making that statement thrice, each time finding another corner in the room to stare at, before finally settling on Lee, standing on the ratty old carpet Ed  _wishes_ they could just get rid of, bare hardwood floors were more bearable than a tattered, blood-soaked synthetic teal and brown rug. It's a meager distraction, one he uses to steady the flow of thoughts swimming through his mind. Takes in the scent of the room (putrid like most of the Narrows), the empty bottles of beer on the shelf behind Lee's desk (no doubt guzzled by her and that _one_ bar staff she's taken a liking too), the way the chair he's situated on squeaks from use as he rises (he's had to secure the leg on it more than once since he's been there), the several discoloured splotches on the singular couch in the room (the one he refuses to sit on), dilapidated walls and weathered doors (the whole place is due for a renovation), and—"What even for?"

"For killing Martin."

"But-but Martin is  _here_." Ed starts to gesticulate, with the thrust of his arms at the space between himself and Lee, who heaves a sigh. "Why are you so unconcerned?"

"I got a call a couple of days ago from Mr Penn, poor guy could barely talk, but said he was making a 'generous donation'—" Lee emphasized this with physical air quotes, "—on Oswald's behalf to our medical facility before his assets could be frozen."

"Maybe it's a trick."

"Doesn't really make much sense if it is one," Lee scoffed. "You can't make it ten feet out of here without someone talking about it. You'd know that if you ever left the building."

"How did this happen?" Lee can tell Ed's questioning the validity of it, wondering where Jim found evidence or was capable of finding someone who wasn't scared of the consequences.

"I don't know specifics, allegedly they have multiple witnesses to attest to the incident."

"That's not—"  _fair, right_ ,  _just_ , Oswald deserved many things, but the second incarceration for something he didn't even  _do_ , didn't sit well. "You knew about this a couple of days ago, and still kept it from me?"

"I was looking for the right time to tell you."

"I don't think any time would've been the _right_ time," Ed admits, finding himself standing next to the couch, a hand coming down to rest on its backside, before snapping it back on meeting moistened fabric, looking up to find a hole in the ceiling, no doubt from a wayward bullet, likely lodged during Cherry's reign. This place needed an overhaul, needed to be torn down,  _burned down_. "How is this partnership supposed to work if you keep me in the dark?"

"You didn't exactly give me an outline of the do's and don'ts of the position, just moved me into a role through a colourful choice of verbiage and coercion."

"I didn't think I needed to explain the importance of open communication."

"I didn't realize you were an expert in the field."

Stalemate, words hitting their intended mark. Lee can't decide if it's hurt, frustration, or stubbornness that clouds over Ed, but it brings an end to the conversation.

"I'm going to the Lounge," Ed states as if that's the only obvious course of action. He picks up the blazer hanging from the steel chair, tossing it over his shoulders. "There's something more to this."

"Could have something to do with Carmine Falcone being murdered."

Ed halts, shoulders hunched, mid-adjustment, "is there anything  _else_ you'd like to share, or is that the last bomb you'd like to drop?"

"Drive-by at the Falcone residence." Lee places a pensive finger to her lips, Ed catching the flash of sorrow before it shifted to detached and indomitable. "Word is the Sirens took over the Lounge shortly after."

' _Father-in-law'_  was the place he'd held in her heart, even if she wasn't particularly fond of the man.

The stories she'd heard of Mario and Sofia's childhood were enough to fashion a lack of empathy towards the family's loss. It didn't reduce the sting of the news, or the pain of Sofia refusing to return her call. It reminded her that she was an outsider to the family, bonded by a marriage that hadn't even lasted an evening.

No doubt Sofia housed blame towards her inaction with Jim, and Lee didn't blame her. Sofia and Mario had been close, she wouldn't be taken aback if Sofia had been well-versed about Mario's concerns over the detective, and all the events that occurred after the fact, Tetch Virus included. All of it continuing to equate to the guilt fueling Lee's path.

"I'm sorry, Lee." Ed offers, digesting the information, lining it up with the missing piece of why Oswald might have been so easy to take down.

"Nothing to be sorry for, this is Gotham." Lee shifts her weight from heel to heel, throat dry, moving back to her desk, pulling out the bottle from the bottom drawer. "Mario wasn't exactly a fan."

It's the first time Ed's heard her say his name out loud. He winces as she drinks straight from the bottleneck, _etiquette be damned in the Narrows_. He doesn't know how to respond, settling on allowing her to be as open, or as closed off as she desires, making a trip into Gotham's midtown could wait. 

"We talked about  _kids_ ," Lee plopped down into the worn swivel chair, placing the bottle between her thighs as she continued. "After my miscarriage, I found out I have Antiphospholipid Antibody Syndrome. Although there is treatment, it doesn't mean complications during pregnancy can't still occur. But, Mario, as positive and wonderful as he was, said we should just adopt. No use in going through another pregnancy to have it fail."

It was one of the last conversations they had from the church to the cabin, discussing how many children they were going to have, names and ages. The memory was bittersweet, they all were, the Tetch Virus hadn't dissociated the parts that she adored.

"He always wanted to give back to the community, we really wanted to start an orphanage at one point. Imagine my surprise, or lack thereof, when his sister opened one in his stead."

It's this that helps Ed connect with  _why_ Lee took in Martin with little persuasion, something Oswald must have also understood, including why Lee does any of what she does. She's already atoned for her failings while under the control of the virus, but it'll never be enough. Keeping Martin safe as a representation of the family she couldn't help, while also providing a service to the Narrows as its leader, helping unearth its potential, to salvage it to become more than the detriment its taken for, those were her true aspirations.

Aspirations that didn't resonate with Ed in any regard, more concerned with having a place to sleep, and a conservative appreciation for Grundy and Lee's livelihoods as his only standing friends in the city. He'd been fairly certain if he had gone about any of this by himself, his alter might have spun out of control,  _or_ it might not have been so prominent if he'd chosen a different route. His pull to remain in the Narrows had been due to the trust and comfort with Lee, stemming from a platonic appreciation he'd harboured while peers, but perhaps that in itself left him open to new severance. 

"I want to teach Martin sign language... if you think that'll be a good idea, I wouldn't mind some help," Ed mumbles resigned by Lee's candor.

She instantly lights up at Ed's change of heart, eyes bright, "that sounds amazing."

"I hope he's a quick learner." In truth, he had started working through American Sign Language dictionaries he'd 'legally' acquired from the only library in the Narrows sometime last week, guarded by a sleepy librarian who hadn't acknowledged his presence when he'd entered, nor noticed when he'd left. "I'll start when I come back from the Lounge."

"Still don't believe me?"

"I need to see it for myself."


	4. I Find It Kinda Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed runs into a familiar face.

It had been Ed's luck in hot-wiring a car that was abandoned after a shoot-out with the GCPD the night before, parking it a fair distance from the club. He was entering territory he hadn’t been back to in weeks and was certain present company would be the opposite of welcoming. The goal was to avoid the Sirens trio entirely, but it was middle of the day, and this plan was starting to sound like a fool's errand.

Lee had warned him. Multiple times. Even had Martin nodding next to her in agreement, wrote out on a piece of paper it was better to visit late at night, which might have pushed Ed to do the opposite.

Edward sees the outline of Tabitha and Barbara, giving direction to the foreman outside the Lounge on where they wanted their new signage to go, backs turned to Ed as he slips into the alley next to the complex. The glass veranda eclipsing the entrance had been replaced with an ostentatiously cherry red canopy, and Ed can’t decide _why_ Barbara would—

“She wants a more _classic_ theme,” Barbara leans her weight against her left side, canting her head towards Tabitha as she continues, “wants the club to be a proper representation of her lineage.”

“Sounds less and less like we’re _partners_ in this arrangement.” Tabitha tuts, snapping her fingers towards one of the contractors. “Seems more like we’re playing house. I didn’t sign up to be an interior designer.”

“Your taste is abysmal anyway.” Barbara jeers, nudging her with an elbow to the torso, as Tabitha likely glared in reply. “Lighten up, Tabby. Gotham is ours.”

“Gotham is _hers_.” Tabitha corrects, looking over her shoulder in the moment it takes Ed to move further into the alleyway, now fully hidden from view, but still able to hear them speak. “The club is a gesture, a rude one at that, leverage for her to use against us when she needs us to display where our allegiances are.”

Edward’s not entirely sure who they’re talking about, having been limited in the news since he’d been defrosted. Lee had mentioned something about Carmine’s daughter, in conversations about Mario. There were still stacks of newspapers on Lee’s desk they hadn’t gotten to, mostly since it was easier to cope with failure from the confines of a part of town that worked hard to pretend it wasn’t an entity of Gotham at all.

Barbara and Tabitha were avid about visiting the Narrows, even though they shared different reasons why. From what Ed understood, Barbara’s interest lay in harassing Lee, Tabitha in unsuccessful attempts at having Grundy recognize her.

Edward finds his way down the alley as their discussion steers towards _Captain_ Gordon and the GCPD’s new mantra for ‘cleaning up the streets’, figuring that would be the last piece of valuable information they could provide. Jimbo becoming Captain of the GCPD must have been a thorn in Oswald's side, unless he had something to do with his induction. Ed can't see why he would, Jim was simpler to corral without being a figurehead of the GCPD, Bullock was easier to tame. The juxtaposition of having power and greed side-by-side would likely see their dynamic collapse, Edward thought.

"It probably already has," Ed mutters, finding the back entrance that led to the kitchen, unlocked. 

There are even more workers inside, few in the kitchen that Ed comes in through, but many in the main area. The current refurbishment involved tearing the umbrellas from their fastenings in the ceiling, changing the overhead lighting to a less fluorescent colour scheme, upholstery being ripped from the seats.

Ed should feel elated by the destruction of an establishment that housed his former frozen self as a centerpiece, for _months_ , and he has no valid reason for why he feels bitter instead. Finds himself irrationally flustered as the contractors move the vase of roses where he'd once been, out through the kitchen, discarding it as quickly as they were everything else. As if none of them understood exactly how much effort had gone into bringing any of this to fruition, and feeling saddened by how easy it was to tear apart.

That’s the way Gotham worked though, wasn’t it? Staying power didn’t mean you lived to see another day, just that you’d remain a legend when your power waned. Oswald was a legend in his own right, but no one here was mourning the loss of his position, _yet_.

Edward moves on impulse to the office, blinds drawn, boxes piled near the door. He finds his curiosity knows no bounds, riffling through their contents for no reason in particular. None of this would help his cause, information that was pertinent to Oswald’s incarceration wasn't hidden amongst antiquities and decorations, many of which he recognized from the Van Dahl mansion. He was purely snooping for the sake of doing so, ignorant of the time as it passed.

He finds himself at Oswald’s—Barbara’s? Tabitha’s?— _a_ desk, meandering behind it, locating Oswald's throne toppled on its side. He pulls open the bottom most drawer, a metal box at the bottom with a numeric device locking it in place. The sounds of a drill working into the wall next to the office pushes him to decide there's no time to open it here. It's light enough to take with.

“What’s that?” A voice perks up from the doorway. Edward’s startled, frozen, still hunched over the desk, security safe box now in hand.

“I—what—who,” Ed fumbles with the box, manoeuvring it behind his back, eyes landing on Selina in the doorway. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like nothing,” Selina moves towards him, “decided petty theft of Penguin’s belongings was more your speed?”

“No—it’s too small to have anything of value,” Ed’s talking too much, instead of forming a plan. He’s been made, and it’s not clicking in his brain fast enough. He watches Selina’s eyes scan over him, no doubt trying to gauge whether he’s armed or not—which he’s not, Lee’s refused him possession of a _real_ gun many times now.

“Decided to nix the suit, Glitter King?” Selina continues her approach, Ed notes how fluid she moves, with little to no sound of her steps against the tile. He had dressed down for the occasion, not wanting to attract attention while roaming the streets. He was on a mission, after all, perfect excuse to wear a dark green cardigan over a white-button down, loose dark trousers at his hips.

“That’s just—“

“Or did you need a new gig? Does this place give you a creature comfort?”

Ed feels like he’s being stalked, not realizing until he's barely past the edge of the desk that leaving isn't really an option, stopped by the snap of a whip in the air across his path.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I admit it might not have been the best decision.”

“Then why did you come at all?” Selina pulls the whip back over her shoulder as Ed scans the room for another exit, surely Oswald had contingency plans for situations like this.

“I needed to see if this was real,” Ed says, figuring honesty would probably go further than lying, not that he was able to figure out an appropriate lie in this moment anyway. “Well, I got my look, it’s time to go.”

“I don’t think so," Selina hums, "Tabitha’s been itching to get back at you since that whole _thing_ you did to her hand, and then that whole shebang with going behind their backs with the Tetch trade,” Selina eyes the window pointedly. “Tabitha knows how to hold a grudge. Though, Barbara might be more lenient.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Things are different,” Selina laments. “Why would you come here? This place doesn’t exactly have good memories for you.”

“I heard your group was taking over. I needed to see if it was true, maybe drop by to offer congratulations.” It was an ill-formed lie, one that took too long to conjure up, and by the manner in which Selina scoffed, she knew it was too. “I heard Oswald was sent to Arkham.”

“We’re all pretty happy about it,” Selina’s statement is followed by a frown. “Sofia is taking over.”

“Sofia?”

Selina rolls her eyes, even when she lived in the Narrows, she at least did her due diligence, it was important to stay current. “Falcone. Sofia Falcone.” Selina recounts the tale of Oswald’s faux friendship with Carmine’s only living child, and the subsequent events, including Martin’s (' _the kid's_ ') demise. It’s then that Selina’s tone changes, low and remorseful, “he… blew him up. Like it was nothing. He was just a kid.”

“You kidnapped him,” Edward states, not catching how sore of a topic it was, noting Selina’s shift back to threatening, her knuckles turning white with her clasp around the whip. He shouldn’t have kept egging her on, but it was more of a distraction at this point. “Seems like you have blood on your hands too.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Selina bellows, attracting a slew of murmurs outside the door, lowering her voice as she continues, “it wasn’t supposed to go down like that. Penguin—he—he deserves what he got. I never thought he’d do it, none of us did.”

“What if he’s not dead?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. It was a stupid thing to say, it could unravel all of what Oswald had set in place to protect Martin. It could bring Sofia and the Sirens to their doorstep.

Selina’s brows furrow, gaze flickering again to the window and back at him, was she scouting for him? “This isn't a joke. He’s not. We saw him die. Zsasz stood as a witness against Penguin, and if Zsasz thinks he’s dead, he must _be_ dead.”

Edward digests this information, organizing it under a column of _‘things that still don’t make sense.’_

“Why would Zsasz turn on Oswald?”

“How am I supposed to know? Everything went sideways after he blew up the kid. Don Falcone gets killed in a drive-by, next thing I know I’m stationed in the bleachers at his funeral, and everyone’s blaming Penguin for it.”

It clicks. It takes a few seconds longer than a fully-there Edward Nygma would be able to connect the dots, but it’s there. “Zsasz thinks Oswald killed Carmine," Ed says out loud, more for himself than Selina, "but he wouldn’t have.”

“How do you know?”

“Why was he back in Gotham?” Edward counters, recalling Oswald’s delight in sharing his involvement with Carmine’s permanent move.

“Penguin got him back here,” Selina answers slowly, “under the pretext that Sofia was unhinged. He was going to take her out of Gotham.”

“What’s the point in killing someone who poses no threat?” Edward questions, “Oswald has more tact than that. It served no purpose to kill Carmine, other than to aggravate Sofia.”

“Maybe that was the point, to set an example.”

“He already did that by blowing Martin up.” He's still talking out loud for himself, not realizing his mistake in choice of phrasing until it's too late.

“How do you know his name?”

Ed stops, can barely prevent his eyes widening like saucers, slapping a hand up to his mouth, but recovering, “you must’ve said it earlier.”

“I didn’t.”

“I must have heard it from someone else.”

“Why are you so concerned with any of this, Sparkles?” Selina presses, snapping the whip forward, rotating the grip in her palm. “Penguin’s a monster, he deserved what he got. End of story.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Ed chuckles, uncomfortable and in need of an escape before he let more pieces slip. “Consider it my curiosity, but curiosity killed the cat and all—“ Selina’s glare forces him to stutter, “—not that—I mean, really, I _should_ be going, places to go, people to see, shows to run.”

“I'll do you this one favour, since we have history, but before I let you go... I’m telling you this because it’s in both our interests.” Selina’s lips slip into a thin line, glancing towards the window. “Keep Tabitha away from Butch— _Grundy_ , whatever you call him. She’s been getting desperate. Talking about getting him out of the Narrows so she can," air quotes in place with her fingers next to her ears, "‘work’ out his kinks. Do with that what you want.”

Selina lets him escape to the door after he nods frantically, “oh, Eddie, another word of advice?” Her words give him pause, grip on the box tightening. “Don’t come back here.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Ed promises, exiting the way he came and avoiding alerting anyone else of his presence.

* * *

Edward's been staring at the box for hours (it really might not have been that long, Lee's only come to check on him once).

It's only  _six_ numbers, but he can't get it right; knows some variation of his previous self would probably find this hilarious, the one that had Oswald down to a T, would've solved this in minutes, seconds even.

He hears the door open to his part of the apartment, faint footsteps making their way to Ed's side as he enters 061852, and gets an obnoxious buzzing sound in reply, red light blinking at him tauntingly. He slams his palm down on the desk.

A chair's being dragged across the floor towards him, as he calms down to direct his attention to Martin as he takes up the seat next to Edward. He scribbles on the pad around his neck, angling it towards him.

_'I've seen that before.'_

"Yes, it's from Oswald's office."

Martin nods, moving to sit on his knees to get better leverage to pull the box in front of him. He gives Ed a grin, before interlacing his fingers, stretching them out, tilting his head back and forth as if preparing for an extensive battle with the digits.

"Martin, I've been at this for—" Ed falls silent as Martin enters 011408, and the top of the box springs open. He's somewhere between irritated and impressed, settling on content that it was finally solved.

' _My birthday_ ,' Martin scrawls.

Martin slides the box back towards him, watching intently as Edward pulls various items from it, laying them on the desk. His fingers halt, starting to shake as they hover above it. Martin starts to write, but Ed's not paying attention, lost in thought even as Martin reaches over him, pulling out the object carefully.

' _I've seen this before, too.'_ Martin writes out, physically placing the pad in front of Ed's face. ' _Said you made it for him._'

"Back when I was in Arkham, yes."

' _Show me how_ _?_ _'_

"What? How to make origami?" Martin nods enthusiastically, "sure, we can do that."

' _And you can take what we make to him,'_ Martin adds, noting Edward's immediate cringe. ' _I can write him notes.'_

Edward isn't sure how to tell Martin that Oswald's not exactly accessible, but if Lee's taught him anything about children, it's that little white lies aren't all bad. "Why not." 


	5. Tell Me What's My Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee, Edward, and Martin come to an agreement about what to do with all his letters.

The effects of Donna Falcone’s reign aren’t immediate. It takes a number of weeks, nearly two months, but it comes down like a wrecking ball. Hikes in taxes, old allegiances pitted against one another, a funnel of new experimental drugs hitting the streets, and a fracture in the control Lee maintains over the Narrows.

It’s becoming harder and harder to facilitate peace across the Narrows, not when Sofia has the GCPD in her back pocket, constantly sending them into Lee's territory to rip them apart. It was better for everyone when the GCPD was too scared to venture in, but Jim has other plans, and it’s becoming clear as day who’s leading who.

“She must have something on him.” Edward points out over the crossword between himself and Lee.

“Who?”

“Jim. Stop pretending like you don’t know who I mean.”

“We don’t even know if that’s the case, maybe it’s just a coincidence.” Lee chuckles as she finishes the sentence, “sorry, it didn’t even sound right saying it out loud.”

“So then what do you think she’s holding over him?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lee should’ve known it wasn’t obvious to Ed, he didn’t think in terms of emotions as the drive for ambition, part of the reason why he still didn’t understand much of his own internal conflicts. She reminds herself he's a work in progress. “She blames him for Mario’s death.”

“But that wasn’t his fault,” it’s not the right choice of words, given all that occurred in the wake of the virus, and Lee’s own role. “It was the virus.”

“It doesn’t give him a free pass, Ed.”

Edward knows not to continue badgering her, despite how much he wants to. Being preoccupied with Oswald coming back to life had put a standstill on keeping up to date with everything else. He’d always kept tabs on Jim and Lee, held sentiment towards them for being some version of ‘friends’ he once had, despite ruining their lives and all that.

Water under the bridge now.

 _No_ , that’s not right.

Ed doesn’t get a free pass either, Lee’s been nothing but cordial with him, other than the appropriate jabs to his ego. She deserved more of an apology than what words could provide. He needed to find a way to repay her.

Martin appears next to him, placing a tricoloured origami modular cube next to his handle-less coffee mug, as well as a boat, a crane, and a crown he jumped up to position on Edward’s head. Lee let out a laugh, louder than one he’d heard in weeks. Martin walked over to her side, giving her a tulip flower and stem.

“Thank you, Martin.” Lee took it graciously, getting up from the side table to place it on her desk for full-view of anyone who’d enter. Martin beamed.

Ed can see the writing around the edges of what Martin’s specifically given him, Martin coming back around to point at them, and then gives him the sign for ‘ _letter_ ’. Edward nods, more solemnly than usual. Ed had promised if Martin worked through his ‘homework’ for the week, he’d bring Martin’s progress to Oswald directly.

He’d given him the homework Monday.

It was Tuesday.

He’d already pushed through all the origami pieces, math equations, and had already learned more signs than Edward had. The child had more energy than Ed knew how to keep up with.

‘ _You promised._ ’ Martin slides the paper across to him. ‘ _And you need to take all the others, too.’_

Ed nods again, meeting Lee’s look of disapproval as she takes her seat across from him. Martin shuffles out of the room as Grundy calls for him, the kid ready to take on his next task.

“Should pay him, he’s done a fine job of babysitting Grundy.”

Edward had given Lee Selina’s warning, although by the sounds of it Barbara had gotten to her first. Lee had decided she’d let Tabitha continue coming to the Narrows on the premise that she keeps her distance from Grundy, only interacts with him after his monthly fights.

If Tabitha was so certain his memory would come back after sustaining injuries, Lee said that would be the only opportunity to take advantage. She wouldn’t allow him to be experimented on. Tabitha needed to have patience, at least that’s what Lee told her from the nosebleeds every time she dropped by.

“I’m pretty sure there’s already a trust fund in place for him.” Lee waits until Martin’s long gone, pulling a flask from her inside jacket pocket, raising it to her lips. The tiny relief they’d received from having Martin around had dissipated with all the stress from Sofia. “What are you going to do about _that_?”

“I can’t lie to him about it, he’ll expect Oswald to have reciprocated with _something_. They probably have a whole manner of speaking to one another, I can’t just pretend I went.”

Martin chooses this moment to re-enter, Ed noticing the forgotten pad on the desk. Can Grundy even read? Martin pauses, looking at Edward and Lee, noticing they’d stopped talking entirely the moment he entered. He decides to stay, Grundy coming in a couple of moments later and joining Martin on the couch as he positions a book between them.

“I cannot execute the aforementioned undertaking,” Ed starts, choosing a more colourful choice of verbiage. Side-eying Martin as the boy points with his finger at the words on the page, Grundy nodding until they get to a word that doesn’t make sense, and Martin proceeds to scrawl a photo as a description. Grundy usually grunts in response. “A return to that atrocious… crater would be unpleasant.”

“I disagree,” Lee pauses to ensure Martin is still not listening. “It might produce amity.”

This was giving him a headache. Arkham wasn’t a viable option. It wouldn’t produce _anything_.

“I’ve already contacted an associate at the…” Lee pauses, “sanitorium. I can arrange for your safe arrival and exit at a time that befits your present work arrangement to see our benefactor.”

The book drops from the couch with a loud thud on the floor, Lee and Edward turn, wide-eyed as Martin practically marches towards them.

‘ _Is Oswald in Arkham?’_ Although Ed reads the paper as if it says, ‘ _cut the crap, give me the truth_ ,’ since that's the look Martin’s giving them both. Never mind why a nine-year-old knows about the infamous asylum, Ed supposed it wasn’t a secret. There’s also the fact Martin had a vocabulary years ahead of what he’d thought, he’d need to adjust the store of books he’d acquired.

“Yes, Martin,” Lee answers, giving Edward a pass at being the bearer of bad news.

‘ _Why?’_

Neither of them knows how to reply, Ed deciding on, “we don’t know.”

‘ _You have to help him!’_

Lee sighs as Martin passes the sheet from Ed to her. “We can’t get involved.”

‘ _Why not?’_

“It might expose _you,_ and we have strict instructions that _you_ come first,” she continues, pressing a finger lightly to the tip of his nose.

‘ _Then you have to take my letters to him, he needs them.’_

It sends a pang fluttering through Ed’s chest, and judging by the look on Lee’s face, it has the same effect on her too. They both understand what kind of special torture Arkham was.

Lee had divulged witnessing multiple atrocities, people didn’t go there to get treated, they went there to be hidden, _'worked'_ on. Oswald had already lived through that. Ed had seen it from his own Doctor Strange days, now left to wonder what fresh hell had fallen on Arkham as of late.

It forced Ed to reminisce about Oswald’s visits and gifts, with no reason other than to support a friend in need. It was selfless, despite everything that happened after the fact. He’d wondered for a while how he could settle that debt. Now he could.

“Can your friend be trusted?” Ed asks Lee, the question bringing a hopeful smile to Martin’s lips.

“My friend, who has worked at Arkham for nearly ten years and never once batted an eye to the kind of shit they pull? Sure, they can be trusted.”

“So, we’re buying them off.”

“Spot on, Ed.” Lee stretches across the span between them, a finger coming up to tap against Ed’s nose as she’d done to Martin. “You’re getting quicker at this.”

Ed visually imagines running a palm down the front of his face. Martin tugs at his shirt, signing ‘ _today?’_

He’s not ready to make the trip today, he’s not even sure if he’ll be ready tomorrow, or next week, or even next month. Perhaps they can stockpile the origami pieces away, make one big show of it. Oswald will be so occupied reading them Edward wouldn’t even need to talk, just be omnipresent, and come back with whatever piece of advice he wanted to give Martin.

Probably something along the lines of, ‘ _don’t trust a man in a green suit.’_

“Martin, perhaps in two weeks,” Lee suggests, which is only returned with a look of distress. “There’s a lot of planning that needs to go into this, we can’t have the wrong people finding out. It’ll look suspicious if either of us shows up at Arkham, we have to keep you safe.”

It’s enough to calm him for the moment.

The following two weeks Martin spends focusing on writing letters that Ed tries not to read, but does so out of sheer nervousness on the drive to Arkham. He’s been hauled into the back of a cleaning van, promised by Lee several times it’s a means of getting him there. He’s forced to wear a grey jumpsuit that matches the other three in the vehicle, giving him a tinge of nostalgia over the similarity to the outfit he and Oswald wore while imprisoned by the Court of Owls.

The road to Arkham is littered with potholes and sharp turns, briefly making Edward consider if this is the last trip he’ll take. The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, not soothing any bouts of nausea Ed has been enduring. He quickly refolds the carrot Martin had created, after reading a bit about using flashcards with Grundy. He’d need to find a way to explain _who_ Grundy was that didn’t sound absolutely absurd.

Though… it being Gotham was enough of an explanation.

The cleaning crew he’d arrived with have long since disappeared into the depths of their duties, but he’s still wearing the outfit to go along with the charade. Less attention the better, despite the bright yellow font on the back with the company name, and their slogan: ‘ _Cleaning spaces, creating happy faces_ ’ underneath.

Ed can literally see Oswald’s sneer at the getup.

Edward’s led through the back entrance of the asylum, passing a corridor that is still barred for use, the entrance to a used-to-be hidden elevator wide open.

He’s led to a different visitor’s area that he’s not used to, one that’s empty, but still features the same floor plan as the other. The guard he doesn’t recognize directs him to the center table, gives him an outline of what he can and can’t do with the inmate, that he may present the inmate with gifts, but they may be taken away, the inmate will be chained to the table, they might be volatile or docile given the dosage of that day, and the point which stands out more clearly than the rest is the guard really has no clue who Edward is.

The first thing Edward notices when Oswald comes into the room (outside of physically trying to leave when his gaze lands on Ed), is Oswald doesn’t sneer.

Edward’s expected the sullen, sunken eyes, but not the accompanying bruises, or hardly-healed gash underneath his right eye. He’s expected Oswald to have lost weight, but not as much as he has, collarbone protruding more than he’s used to from the confines of an oversized uniform.

He’s expected Oswald to glare at him with a fire so bright that he could feel it from across the steel table, but Oswald’s looking everywhere but at him, eyes feral and lacking focus, and when they do land on Ed (for the split second they do), he swears he sees a little bit of the Oswald he had in his apartment from nearly two years prior — exhausted and done-in.

Oswald shifts uncomfortably at Edward’s scrutiny, pulling the top of the jumper to rest properly on his shoulder, only for it to slip again, “come to gloat?”

“Not even a little.”

Ed tracks the way Oswald’s brows knit at the response to the line his lips slide into, chapped and split from whatever tussle had occurred that morning with _whoever_ , to the way Ed’s licks his own lips at his observation.

Oswald’s gaze bores down on him, although it seems like he's looking through him, even as he takes his seat across from Ed, reminding him that despite it being months since the last time they were in the same vicinity, he was not there to note Oswald’s prominent freckles, or continue to find amusement in how comically large the jumpsuit was on his shoulders, or how all of this felt wrong.

It felt as if their roles had reversed as a means to align the cosmos, to make up for all the wrongdoings of Oswald’s past, even if Oswald had paid his dues time and time again. Ed’s always passing by at the wrong time to properly see what he’s withstood. He sees it now, sees Oswald back in a state of battered and worn, needing direction again, or maybe a purpose.

“Please don’t,” Ed’s hand is in the air as the guard moves to wrap the cuffs through the center of the table. “It’s not necessary.”

“It’s mandatory.”

Ed purses his lips, “we can make amendments to regulations for the right price, correct?”

“Of course,” the guard unlocks the handcuffs, pocketing them as he stations himself at the door.

Edward reminds himself that the frailty to how _free_ Oswald seems in those seconds, fingers tracing over the lines of where the restraints had been, is entirely fleeting. He’s not there to continue to observe Oswald, he’s there to deliver. He pulls out the bag he’d kept underneath the table, dumping the contents carefully out in the space between them.

Upon receiving Oswald’s confused glare, mouth opening to ask, Ed interrupts, “they’re from Martin.”

Oswald’s features immediately soften to something Edward had once thought was solely reserved for him. Similar to how Oswald had looked after winning the election, or the numerous times they’d shared laughter or schemes, in an era where things had been defined by simplicity and bliss.

Oswald finally picks up on the fact they contain letters, slowly unravelling each to read and digest each one. He looks up periodically at Ed, as if he’s just read a piece on the man himself.

“If you’re concerned I read the contents,” Ed perks up, when the silence other than the rustling of paper is too comfortable, “well of course I did.”

“I didn’t ask, but nor am I surprised.” Oswald chuckles at the coincidence in which Ed chose to speak up, clearing his throat as he reads, “’ _Ed’s a bit of a wet blanket, but he means well_.’”

They pass the next several minutes in more silence, a smile creeping up on Oswald’s face, sometimes betraying the melancholy in his eyes. Ed tries not to focus on that too much, answers Oswald’s questions as truthfully as he can when it comes to Grundy, something related to the swamp he allegedly came out of after dying at Barbara's hand.

“Thank you for bringing these,” Oswald motions towards the guard that he was ready to go back to his cell. “I know coming back here wasn’t ideal.”

Edward shakes his head as the guard approaches, silently telling him to disregard. “Is there anything you want me to tell Martin? He asks about you all the time.”

“Tell him I wouldn’t mind more drawings next time.”

It implied there _would_ be 'a next time', implied that Ed would continue to play this role. Being here didn’t benefit him, and it was causing more frustration than anything else.

“Only if you’re not too preoccupied. It would mean the world to him.”

The quiet had obviously been telling, Oswald’s comment coming off more manipulative than it might have actually been, but Edward was hardwired to jump to that conclusion, given everything he knew.

He still finds himself answering, “sure,” brain not giving him a definitive answer _why_ he would agree to that, or why his heart skips a beat at the happy glow Oswald emits from across the table.


	6. All Around Me Are Familiar Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed makes a routine out of visiting Arkham.

Edward telling Martin that Oswald only wants him to draw more seems particularly anti-climactic, yet Martin looks like he’s about to bounce off the walls from the news. A smile spreads across his cheeks like it’s the most positive bit of information he’s heard in weeks. It makes Ed wonder if Martin was more concerned about Oswald’s well-being than what he let on, thought that him and Lee were lying about Oswald's whereabouts. Maybe that meant there had been a code to decipher from Oswald’s choice of a request. Or, maybe Martin just did a better job at reading into the request from his short nine years than Ed could understand from three decades.

Martin’s next to Lee’s desk, pulling at her sleeve until she’s paying attention, proceeding to jot hastily at his notepad. Lee was learning sign language along with them, but not nearly at the same speed given she was usually preoccupied, and judging by the urgency of Martin’s scribbling he didn’t have the patience to wait for her to understand.

Lee smiles, nodding, as Martin peels out of the room, kicking up dust and causing the floors to creak in his wake. Ed watches him go, before turning to Lee, brows furrowed.

“He wanted to know if he could use the art supplies in the warehouse,” Lee fills in.

“Most of the jars are empty and the brushes are ruined,” Ed states, although Lee should already know this. “I didn’t realize this would give him so much motivation.”

“A good parent knows what makes their child happy.”

“Oswald’s not Martin’s father.”

“Isn’t he though?”

Ed knows Lee isn’t looking for a reply, but the question lingers. _Legally_ , Martin isn’t Oswald’s child. In Ed’s mind too, there’s the fact that parents should be _selfless_ , willing to be someone who puts their child first, but Oswald wasn’t capable of that. His happy smiles at origami notes and the appropriate sentence to push Martin towards progressing in his talents aside, Oswald wasn’t any different than the one who had Isabell _e_ —no, Isabell _a_ murdered without lifting a finger, right?

Maybe these were qualities which had always existed within Oswald, and Ed had been decidedly blind.

It didn’t change anything. Or, maybe the change had already started to fester.

All of it left Ed with a certainty he’d return to Arkham to re-confirm Oswald’s character, to appease what he already knows to be true.

He knows they can't talk about the events that had wedged betrayal between them, it didn't seem fair to wear down Oswald's already dismal state, even if it was something he deserved. He'd need to be patient.

* * *

Biweekly visits have turned into weekly ones, and somehow two months have passed. Lee has to convince Ed that he can’t go more than once a week without raising suspicion, most of the companies they use don’t even visit as often as they’ve been paid to.

Martin’s also been re-creating the same pieces, finding that there’s no point in creating more complicated pieces as it risks the messages being ripped on accident while being unfolded.

Ed finds more and more inexplicable comfort in Oswald’s company, even with the choice of venue, and feels an increasing warmth to seeing the inmate in better spirits as the weeks go on. Ed pretends it’s not from his presence, but solely from the hope Oswald has in communicating with Martin.

Ed always talks first, realizing after a month that Oswald _waits_ for him to talk first, as if to gauge when it’s okay to speak.

On the tenth visit (Ed swears he's not counting), Ed makes an active attempt to not visually scrutinize whatever injury Oswald’s sporting that day — specifically a new black eye, a purple bruise along the right line of Oswald’s jaw, and that same cheek split open again from lack of proper care. Ed knows Oswald won’t complain about his injuries. Being aware of his tolerance, Ed wonders if he had felt any of it.

Oswald, no doubt realizes that Ed has _so many questions_ , and chooses not to talk about it. Which makes it even more  _frustrating_. His curiosity grows exponentially when Oswald’s grasps the elbow of the arm that looks a little _off_ from the other. Ed refrains from reaching over the table to pop his shoulder back into place, wonders if Oswald would even make a sound.

Instead, Ed’s mouth hangs open, blurting out, “what is wrong with your face?”

Oswald reacts appropriately, eyes blown wide, hand dropping from the place on his elbow, thrown off entirely, shooting back, “who asks that?”

The question and its counter seem to have lifted the unease undercutting their interactions, Oswald sitting less rigidly in the metal chair, no longer walking on eggshells.

“Your shoulder is dislocated.”

“How perceptive of you.”

“I could fix it.”

Oswald shoots a look over his shoulder at the guard, who hasn't given them a second's worth of his attention since they sat down, head tilted forwards like he's about to fall asleep on his perch.

They get up from the table at the same time, a silent agreement between them as Ed takes a moment to notice Arkham has been able to provide Oswald with a correctly sized uniform.

Before the guard has the time to realize what's happening, Ed rounds the table, grips the top of Oswald’s injured shoulder, curls his fingers around his forearm, and feels the blood rush to colour his ears. Ed uses the momentum from the position of his hands to snap the arm upwards until he hears the satisfying sound of a pop.

Ed’s earlier query is answered — other than the one his body responded with, Oswald hadn’t made a sound. Ed idles in the proximity, hearing the guard shuffle forward, baton smacking against the bars as he moves off his stool, Ed’s fingers still around Oswald’s arm.

Ed feels ripped of something vital when they’re forced apart.

* * *

Later that week, Ed finds himself staring. He sees more of Oswald in Martin with every passing day, even sees _himself_ in Martin’s mannerisms. Sees a younger version of himself with the way the boy challenges himself to solve more advanced questions. Ed always thinks he’s found some way to stump him and is then surprised when Martin solves it.

Ed’s the tiniest bit bitter because of it, even more so when he’s scolded by Lee after trying to position Martin with a university level physics question that would be impossible for him to solve. Ed gets so far as _gloating_ when Lee may as well have yanked him by his ear to remind him the child is _nine_ , and that _comments_ , no matter how innocent Ed may think they are, leave permanent impressions.

Ed knows this from experience, doesn’t tell her so, rolls his eyes instead, and situates himself back across from Martin at the desk, and returns to staring. Lee hovers next to them.

It was juvenile of him, realizing it now. Martin just looks confused, not exactly picking up on what occurred.

“I apologize,” Ed murmurs, foregoing signing to illustrate with his tone that he was regretful.

Martin appears unaffected, points to a question from Ed’s earlier ‘exam’, an answer Ed had marked in red as incorrect, but Martin has clearly reworked the equation and still arrived at the same result. Ed works it out on his own sheet of paper instead of his usual methods and comes to the conclusion Martin has.

Martin looks as _smug_ as a nine-year-old can, reminding him of someone else.

Ed refrains from making a comment that Martin is clearly _gloating_ , peering over his shoulder to see that Lee is snickering, and obviously on the boy's side.

* * *

Arkham seems to have a nullifying effect on the way Oswald and Edward handle one another, given past events. Ed knows that this is the only reprieve Oswald has from the routine the institution has in place, or lack thereof. Oswald knows that despite who he has as present company, it’s the closest bout of sanity he’ll have while trapped within Arkham’s walls.

“I suppose my kingdom is in shambles,” Oswald states, after his read-through of Martin’s letters, Ed counting the times they bring a smile to his face. _Eight_. Eight times.

“Nothing you can’t rebuild.” It sounds a lot like a rehearsed reply, something quick to deter Oswald’s dismay, but there’s an awful lot of affection behind it.

Oswald pauses, eyes searching as he chooses to not outwardly acknowledge Ed’s unbridled confidence in him, settling on something irrelevant to the topic, “Jerome Valeska.”

“What?” The name brings a phantom pain to Ed’s arm.

“Jerome has this theory if we play the part of appearing to hate one another, it’ll help him achieve his _dream_ of terrorizing Gotham,” Oswald continues. “So, we alternate. Some days he wins, other days I do. The inmates who do not share Jerome’s aspirations come to me, the others follow him.”

“And you both end up controlling all of them.”

“Correct,” Oswald shrugs. “Jerome treats Arkham as if they’re his breeding grounds, he's been building villains from the inside, trading chaos for a promise of chaos. It doesn’t mean anything when we’re still stuck here. It’s unproductive entertainment.” There’s a pause as Oswald’s gaze flits around the room, “it feels like the longer I’m here, the more I forget what the city looks like. My memory’s turning into that of a goldfish.”

“Actually, goldfish having a three-second memory is a myth,” Ed corrects, averting his stare as Oswald meets his, mouth opening to mutter out ‘ _what’_. “They have a recall up to five months. You’re better off saying you have the memory of a chimpanzee.”

“I—really—just, _sure_.” Oswald tilts his head down in a terse nod, a smirk playing on his lips that Ed catches while trying to side-eye the inmate as discreetly as he can, causing a smirk of his own.

Another week passes and they talk more openly, both continuing to find comfort in the familiarity, granted the side-effect of lingering confusion.

Ed catches himself staring at the gash on Oswald’s other cheek, wondering how Jerome would’ve been able to acquire a knife to cause that kind of damage. He might have used the jagged pieces of a broken mirror. Ed absently hopes that Jerome was also injured in the process. Oswald’s been talking while Ed’s processing, thinking about present circumstances, wonders how it would change if Oswald was released, thinks about what they'd be forced to talk about. Or, continue to ignore.

“What did you hope to achieve when you used to come to visit me?” Ed asks, interrupting Oswald’s discourse.

“I didn’t do it to get something in return, if that’s what you mean," Oswald seems downright sad, and Ed feels a pang of guilt. "Edward, you were my friend.”

Past tense, Ed notes, nods in quiet response.

“This is our routine, isn’t it?” Oswald chuckles to adjust the mood, although it comes off more like a scoff. “One of us ends up in Arkham, the other visits.”

“It’s not an ideal arrangement,” Ed replies, more sombrely than he's intended.

“Would we have crossed paths again if this hadn’t happened?”

Oswald’s always too quick to pick up on what Ed has only put into thoughts, adept at understanding emotions Ed hasn’t.

“I suppose not.”

Their time together that day is nearing its end, Oswald offers a smile and a reminder that Martin’s birthday is the next week. “Also, I’m going to pretend like you haven’t influenced Martin as much as you clearly have, but please pass along that the answer to his riddle is a candle.”

Ed grins, matching Oswald’s.

* * *

“I wonder how Jimbo’s doing with his city in disarray,” Ed reaches during a conversation with Lee, completed crossword cast to the side of the table.

Everyone had noticed a more prominent imbalance as the months waged torment on the GCPD, ripples felt by every head around Gotham, where once the city had some level of unity, was now in collapse.

Turf wars have become a usual occurrence around the city, Blackgate nearing capacity. Although the integration of licenses had been abolished, Sofia offered something new. Every ounce of criminal activity around the city would be rewarded based on severity, and quality of gifts given to her, whether physical or of the information-kind.

A lot of folks in the Narrows had seen that for the lucrative opportunity it was, until a brunt of them had been incarcerated after a raid hosted by the GCPD.

Now a curfew was in place, set by City Hall, Mayor still missing.

So far Ed’s favourite Gotham Gazette headline had been: ‘ _The Grim Age of Jim_.’

It’s all very ironic then that the Narrows is the most peaceful part of the city. It’s enough that they’re both certain Sofia will come around to dig her nails in. Surely, she knew where her sister-in-law had been hiding. It’s clear as day what Sofia’s end goal is, she wants the city to crumble, she can’t do that if she can’t get to every stretch of it.

“The city took Mario away,” Lee laments. “It’s not like I don’t understand her motives, but she _will_ come here. The only reason Mario came back to Gotham was because of me, even if he said otherwise.”

“What can we do?”

“Honestly, I’d be more inclined for you to figure that out.”

Ed instantly thinks of freeing Oswald, the thought jumping to his mind before his brain has made the proper analysis of outcomes and probabilities. The seconds tick by, Lee flicking her phone open, allowing Ed to process in silence.

It’s that simple, isn’t it? Have Oswald released, take back the city that was so rightfully his, prove to Jim that Gotham was better off with him at the helm. There were more specifics forming in Ed’s mind, as he does a lap around the office and wonders, fingers in his mouth, a habit more disgusting now given the lack of access to general hygiene.

Ed doesn’t realize he’s whispered out an _‘Oswald’_ until Lee perks up.

“What did happen between you two?” Lee asks, interrupting the supposed-inner monologue that has Ed boring a hole into the floor of her office.

Ed shuffles his feet, doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, sets his jaw while closing his mouth, lips in a line. “That’s a long story.”

Lee throws her arms out in a stretch, telling Ed the floor was his.

They both don’t have the time for it, as made evident when one of the henchmen Lee had hired to keep an eye on Sofia’s whereabouts barges into her office, interrupting.

“She’s in the Narrows,” he musters out, out of breath, knuckles white with his grasp around the doorknob. Ed swears if he were to put any more weight on it, the knob would probably pop out of place.

“Where?” Lee’s at her feet, grabbing the long black velvet overcoat from the shoulders of her chair.

“She’s _hiring_ , taking her pick from the kids in the east, the ones that hide in the sewers near Arkham.”

“The move isn’t logical,” Ed comments, adjusting his cuffs, tightening the tie around his neck. “Why would she want to secure that area?”

“She’s buying spies, Ed. She knows Oswald’s been receiving visitors.”

If Sofia was there to make a point, she has. She doesn’t even need to step into Lee’s version of a headquarters to leave her mark.

The Narrows populace is up in arms the second after Sofia's disappeared into Gotham’s downtown core, different heads of the table wanting a bigger cut of money Lee doesn’t have. The warehouse is filled to the brim with people shouting over one another, pushing to try to get to Lee to express their version of events. 

Sofia’s offered them safety, security, _money_. Everyone’s run by greed, there’s no loyalty among thieves. Someone gives her a poster they received from Sofia, stating that Lee will hand over the power she has by marking her allegiance to Sofia in two days’ time.

“What does she want me to do?” Lee scoffs, twisting in her chair, completely astonished as she rips the flyer in half. “Bow down to her? We’re supposed to be family.”

Lee can feel the support for her reign waning, despite all she's done, lives she's saved. Lee uses Grundy to bounce everyone out of the building, needing to reorient herself. Ed helps shoo them away, mentioning they'll take it all under advisement.

“We need Oswald,” Lee announces, voice echoing around the now empty building. Ed nods.

Lee isn’t surprised that the news of her clear dismissal of Sofia’s threat brings the woman to her door, but is alarmed by the suddenness. No one had told her that she was coming the very next day, instead warned by the click of heels down the floor towards her apartment complex. Lee hisses at Ed to hide Martin, gets Grundy to man the door. She presses a button underneath her desk, the bookshelf behind them swinging back into a panic room, clearly the only modern aspect in the room. Martin and Ed look to Lee, confused, and then at one another.

Ed _does_ have the answer of how the contraption came to exist.

“You’ll be safe in here, this won’t take long. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear,” Ed reassures, leading Martin into the room, pulling the bookshelf shut.

Once Ed is situated at Lee’s desk, directly behind her left, Lee nods towards Grundy, who opens the door more aggressively than he needs to, huffing at their guest. Sofia gives the large man a once-over before stepping in. The smile on her face as large as it is feigned, approaching Lee’s desk with open arms. She's come alone, none of the Sirens crew in tow, no bodyguards. She's wearing a pantsuit that rivals Barbara's tastes, the red accents in the material catching underneath the overhead lighting.

Ed is briefly concerned that Sofia might make a show of killing Lee right then and there, as she carelessly moves around her desk to wrap her arms around the woman. It looks awkward. They separate quickly, Sofia’s telling smile still rooted in place.

“I was going to wait to come back here Friday, but I’ve come across something that might be pertinent to you,” Sofia’s gaze flickers to Ed, as she pulls a file from her purse, handing it to Lee.

Lee doesn’t know what to make of it initially, and Ed can’t read what it says on the front from this angle.

“I was hoping we could come to amicable terms about this whole Narrows business,” Sofia starts, “it’s an age for women to rule, after all.”

“What do you have in mind?” Lee asks, turning to place the folder on her desk, crossing her arms.

Ed tilts his head to read it, _INDIAN HILL_  stamped across the center, patient file number on the tab, his breath hitched as Sofia makes a comment about respecting boundaries.

“I know about the boy.”


	7. No Expression, No Expression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sofia sets her terms.

“Martin was collateral damage, and everyone is better off thinking he’s still dead,” Sofia moves around the desk, pulling a chair from the table, giving its discolouration a quick glance before choosing to remain standing. This place was repulsive, could she get away with blowing it up and starting over? “If you can keep it that way, then no harm will come to him.”  
  
“You didn’t have to waste your time coming here to tell us that,” Lee pushes off from her desk, plucks the folder off of it, maneuvering closer to her. Even though they’re both similar in height, Sofia’s chosen heels put her at a height advantage, purposefully looking down at Lee, but it’s hardly an impact on Lee’s composure. Ed’s eyes follow the folder, practically salivating at the idea of its contents. Lee thrusts the file onto Sofia’s chest, “what is this?”  
  
“I thought you might find it fascinating,” Sofia elongates the word, pulling it from Lee’s hands to open it, holding it in a way Ed can’t see the pictures inside. “Did you know Indian Hill was running experiments underneath Arkham Asylum?”  
  
“Everyone knows. It was all over the goddamn news,” Lee’s eyes narrow as Sofia brushes past her, walking towards where Grundy is standing near the door.  
  
Sofia snaps the folder close, reaching Grundy, canting her head to the side as she inspects him, “Strange was creating monsters, but one of you is already intimately aware of that detail,” she runs a hand inquisitively down Grundy’s arm, pausing at the hand that would have been chopped off by Oswald, “someone with so much strength and the added ability to regenerate must have significant weaknesses.”  
  
“What’s your point?”  
  
Sofia’s clearly not interested in answering her, “from what I understand, this one’s just a shell of the man he was before, with a fear of fire, and the risk of returning memories.” Sofia pulls a lighter from her pocket, causing both Lee and Ed to lurch forward at the same time. “My associate put me in touch with someone who had stockpiled all the files before the GCPD or a Wayne Enterprise goon could confiscate them. A Strange fanatic, if you will.”  
  
Neither Ed or Lee respond, she’s not listening. Sofia flips to another page, running a finger down it as she pretends to be reading it for the first time. An ecstatic ‘ah’ escapes her lips, as a knowing smile comes over her. “This one’s such a shame, to do with your sidekick of all people, wasted on a plan that never truly came to fruition, did it? I guess the Court of Owls underestimated Oswald. Easy to do.”  
  
Ed blanches, and Lee wants to intervene but it’s more beneficial to remain unaffected. “I don’t know why I have to ask this a second time, but what’s your point?”  
  
“Just thought you might want insight into the two you have under your wing.” Sofia shrugs, canting her head to the side. “Oh, for now I decided I want your profits, Lee. Eventually more than that when the time comes.”  
  
“The Narrows has no profits.”  
  
“Well, I guess you better hike the taxes then.”  
  
“There’s no money here, Sofia. There hasn’t been in decades.”  
  
“That’s hardly my problem. Make it work. Mario always said you worked hard given the right motivations,” Sofia pockets the lighter, closing the gap between herself and Lee. “We really should go for a drink some time soon, between sisters and queen-pins.” Sofia reaches around to throw the folder onto the desk, Ed still following it intently. “Best to come up with a plan for next collection day. Victor will be sending someone.”  
  
“You didn’t even give us a number to work with,” Lee starts, unfolding her arms, taking the folder from the desk before Ed even has the chance.  
  
Sofia is halfway to the door, before turning on her heel, long pale grey overcoat twirling with her. “The hired help comes with the invoice. Also, I’d like to remind you that everyone in Gotham is easy to buy-off, even ones you’ve already purchased services from at Arkham.”  
  
Grundy makes a grunting noise as Sofia runs a hand down his arm, she gives thanks as he opens the door for her departure. Everyone in the room releases a breath as Sofia’s heels are hardly heard down the hall.  
  
“She knows everything,” Lee breathes out, hands coming down on the corners of the length of her desk, leaning over it. “She’s only asked for money, but there’s more to it.”  
  
Lee takes several breaths, fingers dancing on the left edge, above where an untouched bottle of whiskey lays in her drawer. Right hand open-palmed on top of the Indian Hill folder. Upon receiving no response from Ed, looks up to find his gaze hasn’t wavered from it.  
  
“I can’t give this to you, Ed. Not until I’ve looked through it and verified the information. I can’t have you going on a wild goose chase thinking any of this is real.”  
  
“You don’t even know what it says,” Ed whines.  
  
“I know enough to see that it scares you.”  
  
Ed falters a little at that, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Lee tuts, eyes widening as she stands back up fully, pulling the folder with her and presumably opening to the page Sofia had read from earlier. Whatever’s in it isn’t what Lee had expected, judging by how uncomfortable she looks. “There’s a photo in here of Kristen, but the name at the top of the profile says Isabella. You’re trying to tell me that doesn’t unravel you?”  
  
Ed’s eyes are saucers, arms outstretched to grab the file, “of course,” Ed starts lowly, before regaining a higher tone, “of course it does, just let me read—”  
  
“Not a chance,” Lee side-steps as Ed practically lunges towards her, Grundy appearing from his post at the door to grasp Ed’s shoulders and prevent him from chasing her around the room. “I know someone who had a similar issue with a lookalike last year, let me make a house call.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be worrying over our Sofia situation? I can take care of this myself.”  
  
“I’d rather you dig up some dirt from here and see to Martin’s well-being.”  
  
Lee has all the intent in the world to make the most of an excursion out of the Narrows, and is certain she’ll be able to obtain more information than Ed could.  
  
“Yes, right, continue to assume my position as babysitter and sidekick, got it.”  
  
Lee has the decency to look insulted, hand at her chest, scoffing. “Sheesh, anyone else in your position would think they were lucky.”  
  
Ed has a few choice words to make, but everything falls silent when they hear light knocking behind the bookshelf.  
  
“Martin!”  
  
Lee and Ed both try to explain to Grundy there’s an easier method than pulling the bookshelf off its hinges on the wall to get to the boy, and Lee promises Martin up and down that Ed will bring him ice cream to compensate for the terrible ordeal of a day.  
  
Once Martin is happily situated in the other room, fingers deftly moving across piano keys with Grundy as a captive audience, Lee closes the door to her office, file in her grip at her hip.  
  
“I hope I don’t need to remind you of his birthday coming up,” Lee’s attempt at distracting Ed doesn’t go particularly unnoticed, but at this point he knows chasing after the file will only end in the same fashion as earlier.  
  
“Of course not, Oswald’s made a point of reminding me every visit.”  
  
“A small part of me feels bad he can’t be there to attend.”  
  
“I can—“  
  
“Don’t start, seeing Oswald will only add more fuel to the fire with Sofia, she already knows something is going on.”  
  
“It can just as easily be explained away. You could say you have no control over my friendship with Oswald—“  
  
“She knows about your falling out, Ed. Perhaps not the specifics, considering I don’t even know,” Lee stares pointedly at him with a pause, “but she knows you’ve tried to kill him twice, and subsequently he put you on ice.”  
  
“Crazier things than forgiveness have happened in Gotham.”  
  
“Is that what you’re calling it now?” Lee gleams, grin lifting the air in the room. “You’ve forgiven him for whatever he did?”

“What are you—that’s not—I meant… if need be, that can be the story.”  
  
“Sure,” Lee’s gaze flits up and down Ed’s frame, Ed suddenly feeling very scrutinized. Even though she leaves out the air quotes, Ed can still see her using them, “story.”  
  
Lee leaves Ed gaping like a fish, lips flapping with no sound as she commends Martin in the other room for his improvement on a piece she’d picked out for him to learn.

* * *

Ed is fully aware Lee told him not to go to Arkham, but he’s never been fond of taking orders. This time having hitched a ride on the commuter bus of staff to the building, after binding and gagging one of the nurses to acquire their outfit. It fits far too loosely, but until he reaches the gate to change he is Nurse Romeo. Ed tsk’s as he releases the badge after reading the name, letting it fall against his chest.  
  
He thinks again about how this could be the method in which he gets Oswald out of Arkham.  
  
Except there’s no public record anymore of where the nurses and doctors are posted for their shifts, and they are all given specific passes for their designated areas. They’re all trained to be able to work anywhere within the asylum so they can effectively change the schedules on a whim.  
  
Ed sometimes finds himself impressed with how things have changed.  
  
Then as he’s seated in the visiting lounge, he’s reminded that ex-convicts are still somehow allowed to visit places they’ve previously inhabited and all respect is lost.  
  
“Why am I not surprised your idea of a gift for a soon-to-be ten-year-old is a set of encyclopedias and a puzzle,” Oswald mutters, but it doesn’t persuade Ed to be any less enthusiastic towards his choice of gifts.

Oswald newest jumper is covered in blood along his left side, and Ed wants to preen at Oswald’s likely success since he carries no new injuries.  
  
“It’s exactly what he needs.”  
  
“You’re an expert on children now?” Oswald can’t help a feeling of fondness at the idea. Ed likely reading whatever textbooks he can to understand how to talk to a child, how to bond with him. From what Oswald knows of Ed’s own childhood, he’d likely be baffled by how to properly treat Martin. The idea that perhaps there’d only really be one child in Ed’s life that could pull this sort of selflessness from, and it had to be the only child Oswald would ever want to be his own, it left Oswald feeling short of air. “I suppose Martin isn’t a toys type of child.”  
  
Ed being attached to someone other than himself was a feat all on its own.  
  
“Do you still have your key for the mansion?” Oswald asks after a pause, finding it difficult to look at Ed in moments like this.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Ed answers automatically. Despite all that occurred, there was a strange sentiment that came with the manor, and it weighed heavy in his chest pocket.  
  
“I want you to give that to Martin, as a promise.”  
  
Ed nods, wondering if this meant he was entirely stripped of the privilege to ever call the mansion home again.  
  
“I’ll have another key made for you, or you can have one copied," Oswald adds, clearly seeing the distress pass across Ed’s face, despite the lack of physical change. They both need a change of subject. “You have to get me out of here before that lunatic is out first. He’s planning something with the other ones — Crane and Tetch.”  
  
“Are you competing to see who can escape first?” Ed teases, Oswald glares.  
  
“This cesspool is debilitating.”  
  
“It’s a work in progress, Oswald.”  
  
“Where is the blockade then?”  
  
“Sofia making idle threats, with something bigger in the mix we haven’t figured out. She knows about Martin, and seems to know about my visits here.”  
  
“All that equates to is Martin being in more danger than before.”  
  
“He’s protected around the clock.”  
  
Oswald’s on his feet, starting to pace the otherwise empty visitor’s lounge, Ed fiddling with one of the cranes on the desk in front of him. Wheels are turning, searching for ideas that Ed’s already crossed off on a list of ‘what-ifs’. He’s thought about it up and down for nearly a month.  
  
Getting into Arkham isn’t so simple when you’re not a visitor. Oswald being in the same violent ward as Jerome makes it even more difficult, the security is set-up entirely different. The map of the ward is nothing like where Ed had stayed, he had that previous layout memorized. There are underground access tunnels to Indian Hill, but that was still in a different part of the asylum.  
  
The only thing he knows specifically about this ward is where he’s let in, where he’s led to, and how he’s let out, and it always follows the same pattern. It never seems like the staff change shift, but they must. Ed’s come at different times each visit, but is always met by the same guard. There’s no pattern or rhyme to the staff.  
  
Ed knows exactly how long it takes for the guard to retrieve him from his cell to bring him to the meeting area. He knows how many cameras are along the way. He knows how many staff man the ward that lead up to all the unknowns Ed hasn’t figured out.

There’s nothing that makes any of it seamless, and Oswald can’t help from the inside.  
  
“I need you to find someone for me, Ed.” Ed perks up at this, distracted from thinking about how the GCPD would likely have updated maps kept in house. Oswald’s fingers are hooked inside his sleeves, material at his lips. “She disappeared before even meeting Martin, but she’ll treat him like her own.”  
  
The apartment complex wasn’t big enough to keep another person. Or, was Oswald suggesting Martin should be moved? Ed tried to remember those from Oswald’s ‘freak family’ he could be referring to, but he hadn’t seen anyone around except for Victor Fries after being released from the ice, and the remainder of his time had been in the Narrows.  
  
“Why do you expect me to chase after your strays?”  
  
Oswald flapped his arms to his side, rolling his eyes, “because!” Oswald released a breath, seeming as if in pain to continue, “she’s more valuable than I’ve ever adequately shown my appreciation for.”  
  
That’s not what Ed expected. Expected a more combative Oswald, yes. Not one to admit admiration. It wasn’t a side he’d necessarily witnessed before to anyone other than himself. If she was an important element to this, and could provide oversight in what Ed was missing, why not? “Who am I looking for?”  
  
“Ivy Pepper.”

* * *

  
A trip to Wayne Manor hadn’t been particularly productive, a very hung over Bruce Wayne was hardly coherent enough to give her any information, and Alfred was nowhere in sight. After receiving a dark laugh from Bruce, she found out Alfred had been fired, and Bruce couldn’t be happier.  
  
“Didn’t peg you for underage drinking, it’s very unbecoming of you Bruce.” Lee mentions as Bruce aims to retrieve the bottle on the table, Lee getting there first.  
  
“We’re all full of surprises,” Bruce slurs. “It was only a matter of time.”  
  
“Right.” Lee can’t be happier that Oswald hadn’t dropped off a teenager at her doorstep, since she’s not entirely sure she’d be able to handle this level of teenage drama yet. Lee puts a few more of the fuller bottles into her purse as she leaves, even though she knows it won’t stop Bruce from acquiring more.

* * *

It seems like a massive coincidence to find Alfred in the same bar where Harvey Bullock works, even more her luck that it’s not far from her residence in the Narrows. Lee removes her overcoat, hand on the fur neck lining as she approaches the bartender and his woeful patron.  
  
Whatever discussion they're having is cut short, Harvey pulling a bottle from underneath the bar, pouring the dark cherrywood brown liquid into a glass.  
  
“Lee, what brings you to our sorry neck of the woods?” Harvey puts the tumbler onto the bar, in front of a stool situated next to Alfred.  
  
“Looking for information to satisfy an inquisitive mind.” Lee mutters a thank you as she wraps a hand around the glass. “I always thought you did better at a dive like this, Harv.”  
  
“Your ex doesn’t think so,” Harvey adjusts the apron at his hips, glancing between her and Alfred.  
  
“Well of course not, it meant losing you. Between you and me, I don’t think he’s ready for captain yet, but what do I know.”  
  
“Amen sister,” Harvey nods, the resentment harboured still top of mind. “Since Sofia’s come to town, everything reeks to high hell. I still haven’t figured out what she has on him.”  
  
Lee traces her finger along the edge of the glass, waiting for Harvey to continue. Jim is still a sour topic, she’s better off thinking that none of that had happened at all. Everything that occurred from knowing Jim Gordon had ultimately changed her to her very core.  
  
She wasn’t nearly as care-free as she once was, life didn’t look so shiny. The childlike wonder for anything and everything disappeared in a puff of smoke after her reincarnation in the Narrows.  
  
“They’ve been sleeping together,” Harvey all but blurts out, shooting Lee a look of pure sympathy. “Maybe you already know that, but it’s all sorts of fucked up. He killed her brother.”  
  
“And my husband of four hours.”

All sorts of fucked up didn’t start to cover it.  
  
“I’m sorry, Lee.”  
  
“No need. It is enlightening though.” Lee rotates on her chair, finding Alfred twisting his glass between his hands, likely feeling like an outsider to the conversation. “I am here for you though, Alfred.”  
  
“I do believe this drink is three years too late, innit?” Alfred raises his glass to hers. “What can I do for you love?”  
  
Lee pulls the file from her purse, only placing it on the bar after Harvey wipes it down. She slides it over to Alfred, watching how his gaze falls on the emblem on the front.  
  
“Indian Hill, haven’t heard of that lot in a bit,” Alfred opens it by the tab, looking at the picture with brief confusion. “This one used to work at the GCPD, didn’t she? Young thing.”  
  
“Yes, Kristen Kringle was our records keeper, used to date Edward Nygma.”  
  
“The moronic fellow that calls himself the Riddler?” Alfred smirks, flipping the page. “What happened to her?”  
  
“He killed her.”  
  
“What a shame,” Alfred pauses on the page that reads ‘psychological traits’. “What does this have to do with me though?”  
  
“The woman in this file isn’t Kristen, they have her listed as Isabella.” Lee points to one of the lines on the page, “and these traits aren’t hers, they’re Ed’s. They have a whole assessment done on him, no clue how they attained it. The next page is Oswald’s. There’s a history page on everything to do with the life Kristen lived, and then one on how they wanted Isabella to live. How she should act, talk, dress, glasses she should wear, it’s all very elaborate.”  
  
“Reminds me of the Bruce clone that showed up at the mansion,” Alfred, livelier than Lee thought was possible, flips three pages, landing on the one talking about the process they took in creating Isabella, multiple references made to the Court of Owls. “The boy… when he first showed up, he knew nothing. Then when he came back, he knew everything. He was every aspect of Bruce that could be Bruce. I should’ve been more aware of the differences. That doesn’t seem to be the same thing with this one though. They wanted her to be the same in so many regards, yet different enough to carry herself as her own person.”  
  
Alfred continues to read, reminiscing about his own experience with the clone that had stayed at the mansion.“When the clones come to life, unless they’re instructed on who to be, they’re lost. This boy was absolutely enthralled with Bruce, demanding to be in his life, they want a purpose. This woman seems to have been built with a purpose.”  
  
“So, if she was given say… a task, she would do anything she could to succeed in it?”  
  
“Most definitely. It would be like needing air to breathe to them.”  
  
“There’s truth to this then? She wasn’t just a mysterious twin that no one knew about that managed to coincidentally encounter the previous Mayor’s Chief of Staff who dated her sister?”  
  
He gets to the several pages involved with adjusting the neural pathways of Isabella’s mind, shortly after she’d received a thorough detailed account of Kristen Kringle. She was made to be gentler, more passive, more malleable. There were photos as she sat in a cell in Indian Hill, strapped to a chair in front of a projector’s screen, eyes kept wide open as they cycled through who Isabella should be on repeat.  
  
“I can’t say for sure that’s not the case, maybe this one never saw the light of day. But there’s a stronger chance that this here,” Alfred closes the file, index finger pressed down on it, “is the truth. Everything in here is similar to the file we got about Bruce’s clone.”  
  
None of this seems to be what Lee wants to hear. In truth, she wanted this to have been created by Sofia to torment them, to pull up things from Ed’s past to distract him enough from his responsibilities with her.  
  
“The clone had a malfunction though. This one would’ve eventually died too. It was an issue most of Strange’s experiments had. They were only successful for a limited amount of time. They needed constant medication that was nearly impossible to make, Lucius Fox had said much of the pharmaceutical concoctions made at Indian Hill were sent back to Wayne Enterprises to be catalogued and dissected by the chemical ward.”  
  
Lee knows Isabella had died, but killed by a train colliding with her vehicle. She’d been the one there to do an examination of the body when it had arrived, she just didn’t want to be there once she realized Ed was the emergency contact.  
  
She had hoped that it had been Kristen, that for some unknown reason she had assumed a new identity when she had gone missing so long ago, under the pretence of hiding from Dougherty, or something that might have given light to how a duplicate had shown up at the GCPD.  
  
This was worse.


	8. Worn Out Places, Worn Out Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has his first birthday party. Lee tells Ed the truth about Isabella.

“The big one-oh, ten smackaroos, out of the kid years!” Ed punches the air in front of himself vibrantly, trying to soothe whatever qualms seem to be sitting heavy on Martin’s mind. He gesticulates with far too much enthusiasm, making Martin cringe, while they take a tour of the room.

Martin looks around at the sad multi-coloured balloons, finding Grundy still working away at them in the corner. One explodes, shocking the large man, who grumbles and changes his tactic, begins to blow into another one, but releases it before he manages to tie it, and it flies into the air, fizzing out a few feet ahead of him. He has the sense to look defeated by the rubber enemy.

“Aren’t you excited? We’ve invited the whos-who of keeping their traps shut,” Ed continues, motioning for Martin to follow him around the dried blood on the floors, a square mark still lining it where the ring appears every couple of weeks.

They take the three steps up to approach a covered table which is usually used as Lee’s desk during in-house meetings, and Martin starts to pull at the edge of the cloth, only for Ed to swat it back down lightly before he can get a peak.

“Young man, the birthday boy waits for surprises,” he scolds with a grin.

Martin slumps his shoulders in reply, looking around the room again from the higher elevation, sees Lee at the door, ushering several children and their slightly confused parents in. Martin shuffles on the heels of his feet, glancing at Ed, turning fully to him.

 _‘I’ve never had a birthday party before_ ,’ Martin signs, hoping Ed can be helpful. _‘What am I supposed to do?’_

Ed stiffens, briefly thinking Lee would be the better person to ask, but she’s far out of reach, now curving pleasantries with the locals, Ed speaks instead of signing, “truth be told, I haven’t a clue.”

The kids file in, escaping the grasp of their parents hands to run towards the various games set up around the space — spanning from dropping bags of rats down a chute, feeding the encased barracuda Ed recently acquired during a trade of riddles, leaving an unwilling participant at the pier more inclined to get Ed away from him by just giving away the reptile. To Whack-A-Kneecap of a recent Lee nay-sayer, Lee just didn’t realize Ed had someone actually strapped underneath, gagged. To a game of Dunk Tank, but instead of water, various traitors of the Narrows were being dropped into a fiery pit below (obviously the children wouldn't bear witness).

Martin glances at Ed expectantly, still waiting for proper instructions.

 _‘I imagine you’re supposed to enjoy yourself,’_ Ed signs, taking the notepad he’d retrieved earlier from his pocket, crouching down to meet Martin at eye level, placing it around the boy’s neck with its associated pencil. They’d forgone it in the last couple of weeks, in favour of accelerated (or forced) learning. Ed pulls at Martin’s shoulder before he scurries away to join the mob of children. _‘Or, at least act as if you’re having fun. Remember, we’re here if you need a break. Also, for curious minds, your name is Oscar today.’_

Ed watches on as Martin joins a group bobbing for apples — the only mildly normal activity there, before turning around to check on the cake underneath the cover, pulling up the plastic casing to run his finger along a small part of the icing. He nearly jumps when Lee appears next to him, licking his finger clean of the evidence.

“You sure went all out with this,” Lee comments with a smirk, “and there’s still the cake baking upstairs for later. Colour me impressed.”

“He deserves a day to feel like a kid,” Ed states simply, replacing the cover, and turning to face the same direction Lee is, watching Martin interact with the others. “Have you spoken to your butler contact?”

“Not yet,” Lee lies, without a hint of it in her voice. “I’m having trouble locating him.”

“It’s been a week, I’ve given you more than enough time, you should just let me read it.” Ed doesn’t meet her eye but feels her concerned gaze all the same. “You’ve clearly read the contents, what difference will it make?”

“I’m not happy with what it suggests.”

“It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I should be privy to the information, when it directly concerns me.”

“Up to its discovery, you’ve been fine without knowing, Ed.”

Ed favours disconnecting entirely from the conversation to scold Grundy for being so inept at such a simple task, walking away from Lee briskly. Better to comment on how blowing balloons isn’t that hard, instead of a fifth senseless argument with Lee.

She’s kept the file under lock and key since it arrived, and that lock kept underneath a digitally encrypted cabinet in the panic room provided by Oswald, of which Edward still hadn’t figured out the combination, despite numerous attempts. Which end the same — with an alarm rung, Lee and one of her security team members rushing into her office, guns drawn, Ed’s hands in the air. Lee’s started to come by herself when it goes off now.

She’s not proud of lying to Ed, but she’s wary of his ignorant bliss with all he has, and the steady progress he’s made post-freeze. He reminds her more and more of the Ed she used to know, but still changed and refined despite the need for more adequate hygiene. She still maintains a heavy bout of anger towards him, enough that it makes white lies guiltless.

Lee’s still weighing the scales when it comes to this newly acquired knowledge. Sofia’s given her a grenade which could do one of two things — explode all over Ed’s acceptance of the last year and a half of his life, or prove to be a dud that changes nothing. Lee’s betting on the former, or some happy medium that will still cause undue strain and drama on their trio of a strange family. As well as threatens whatever fragile relationship being formed through Ed’s Arkham visits.

Visits which hadn’t ceased, as Lee noted, after hiring an extra member to their security team to keep an eye on Ed’s whereabouts, from a distance.

For Lee, the brunt of the decision to tell Ed rested in what she still didn’t know, bits of the circumstances leading up to Isabella’s death, and why the Court of Owls was so invested in them, why it subsequently led to their falling out, and why Oswald thought the only appropriate method to deal with Ed was to freeze him.

The vibration of the phone in Lee’s hand jars her from her thoughts, screen alit with a text, which brings her attention to the door, seeing Barbara there, leaning against the frame. Ed watches them leave, with a glare Lee tries to ignore.

Lee had done as much investigating as she could, but she really should’ve taken advantage of Barbara earlier. Realizing she’d been in the inner circle at the time could’ve connected the dots a helluva lot sooner. She asked Barbara initially for any editions of the Gotham Gazette she might have held onto, which Barbara hands her once they’re a safe distance away from the party down a hall.

Lee tries not to linger on Barbara’s attire, steep neckline and all. Barbara clings to the bag as Lee tries to pull it away, “I charge for my services, y’know.”

Lee scowls, head falling forward in lack of amusement, “I thought we were past this.”

“A kiss for my intel,” Barbara leers, backing Lee into the wall behind them.

“Not here.” Lee counters, entirely unaffected, finally able to take the bag from her, as Barbara steps back. The door to the party opens at that moment, sounds filling the previously silent hall, Grundy stepping out with a garbage bag, travelling past them to take it outside.

“Still keeping secrets, I see.”

“I’m not ashamed—“

“Wasn’t my issue,” Barbara interrupts, gloved hand raised. “It’s alluring, is all.”

Lee places one band of the plastic bag along her forearm, taking out one of the issues, noting it wasn’t Gotham Gazette, but a gossip editorial titled: _‘What Really Goes on in the Van Dahl Mansion’_ , a comment underneath about how they had an inside view from one of the staff, stating how Ed would make frequent visits to Oswald’s bedroom at late hours.

“Why do you need this anyway, can’t Eddie boy give you the low down?” Barbara takes a step around Lee to place her back against the wall next to her, pointing at one of the paragraphs. “This is a hoot — I paid Olga good money to tell that lie. I don’t think either of them ever even read it, but it was hilarious at the time.”

“I’m trying to decipher the events of why things ended the way they did,” Lee says, flipping the pages, deciding this one didn’t have the information she needed.

“Honey, I’ve got all the information you need up here,” Barbara grins wildly, tapping a finger to her temple.

The ‘scoop’ as Barbara refers to it, unfolds in a rickety tale that puts her in a better light than it should, but the highlights permeate in Lee’s mind, sorting it, almost wanting to write it all down.

Things like:

“—poor Ozzie was in love with our dear Ed, probably still is—”

And,

“—the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head, and Ozzie thought there was no alternative other than having Isabella killed—”

And,

“—so, Eddie hatched a plan to enact his revenge, and ruined Oswald, ultimately wanting to kill him, and thought he had on that godforsaken pier—”

And,

“—then there was this whole ordeal with drugs, and needing to,” Barbara physically using air quotes, “‘find himself’, and a proper new mentor. He was a real yawn during that time, came out as ‘the Riddler’ in the end—”

Finally,

“—until Ozzie came back, that whole new side of him seems to have been shut down by being entombed in ice.”

Ed picks that time to come out to snag Lee, telling her it’s time to cut the cake and she can’t even believe how much time has passed while Barbara had been talking. Barbara gives her hand a squeeze, from an angle Ed can’t see, before actively ignoring bidding adieu to him.

“What was she here for?” Ed mutters bitterly as Lee walks past him, observing all the children clambering around the lifted platform, Grundy at some point having returned, was holding paper plates and handing them out.

“Not your concern,” Lee replied, still digesting what she had learned, the room felt like it was spinning.

Once happy birthday was sung, the trio had helped to distribute the cake around the room, Ed pointedly stood next to Lee. She hadn’t touched a morsel of the cake in hand. She really didn’t want now to be the time she tries to speak to him. It was all likely to rush out in a flurry of questions, it’d be better if she slept on it, had more time.

“Why was she here, Lee?”

“To deliver information,” Lee holds up the bag still wrapped around her arm, shaking it. “Just some old newspaper articles.”

“We have a whole collection of them in your office, what time period were you looking for?”

“Well, Ed,” a scream from the children horse playing briefly provides a distraction, but luckily it's only mindless playing. No damage done, Martin is standing a little ways away, clearly not a fan of the loud noise. “They’re from when Oswald was mayor.”

“Why would you need—“ Ed’s eyes widen. Lee wondered why he still thought he wasn’t quick enough in his analytical processing. “You could’ve just asked.”

“And you would’ve just lied, plus a lot of those stories don’t carry much truth,” Lee pauses, “Barbara on the other hand.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Everything, it seems like.”

“Like?”

“You tell me.”

“If you already know, what’s the point in repeating it,” Ed doesn’t appear stressed, but his tone gives it away, deepened while refusing to take his eyes off the hole in the wall opposite to them. “What use does this have for you? Is this something to do with the Indian Hill file?”

“In a way, yes,” Lee knows what he’s going to ask next, “I’m not giving you the file until you tell me your version of events.”

Ed sighs loudly, throwing his hands up in resignation, starting a circular pace in front of her. The story starts somewhat the same as Barbara’s, though more detail than necessary about their living situation and Ed’s affections of Oswald’s aspirations. How he’d met Isabella, how she was the spitting image of Kristen, a second chance, it stung Lee to hear. One part because of her natural empathy for others, one part at the prospect of Ed thinking he deserved normal at all.

Then Ed mentions, “Oswald saw her as a pawn being used against me—”

“You’re lying,” Lee interrupts, “he killed her because he was jealous.”

Ed’s fingers twitch at his right hand, whatever happy mood had started with this day had long since transformed into uncomfortable reminiscing.

“And you tried to kill him as comeuppance.”

“Who’s telling the story?” Ed musters out, “if you already know it, why are we talking about this?”

“Because there’s a reason why you refuse to acknowledge it, but I still think you need to in order to feel like you’ve fully recovered,” Lee shakes her head. “I don’t think you’ll ever be back to who you can be, if you continue to ignore it.”

“What does the file say, Lee?” Ed circles back, “why is this prompted by it?”

Perhaps Lee needs to be the one to take the first step, provide the branch for Ed to lean on, to be willing to divulge more, or still none at all, throw the grenade and see where it lands.

“She wasn’t real, Ed.” Lee gauges his reaction, finds none except for the narrowing of his eyes, and a hint of confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

“Isabella was created by the Court of Owls,” Lee states sympathetically, giving him all she’d learned from the file, as well as her conversation with Alfred, admitting she had already seen him. That Isabella would’ve died no matter what, which sits at the forefront of Ed’s thoughts — that it wouldn’t have mattered if it was Oswald who’d done it, or Ed himself, nothing with her would’ve lasted.

It’s a strange thought then, the lie he’d let slip earlier, that there was more truth behind it than he realized. Isabella had been a pawn used against him, was that always a subconscious thought Ed held? Lee’s moved on to discussing how there was a timeline in her schedule, she’d been following Ed for days, waiting for the perfect moment for them to meet. Had everything they were to discuss planned out beforehand. All the future conversations to be had, clothes to wear that were complementary to Ed’s self.

There was beauty in the makings of it all, something this well-designed, for him. Well, really it was for Oswald, as Lee continues, or perhaps better defined as for the both of them. That the Court of Owls were so well-informed to the notion they were so untouchable and powerful together, how something would need to be done to force a wedge between them.

“She wasn’t real, Ed.” Lee repeats, by the end of it. The continued lack of emotion is what unnerves her, she knows Ed compartmentalizes everything in his own way, but shouldn’t this be a cause for _something?_ Mourning at the loss of all he had come to understand?

“What am I supposed to do with this information?” Ed asks after a few minutes of silence, everything around them is deafened, there’s a ringing in Ed’s ears that makes his vision blur. He can hear his heart hammering in his chest. The children sound quiet, even though he can see them rucking about, mouths open and should be glaringly loud, but nothing.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting from the file, but this did answer some questions.

“I don’t—” she starts, immediately interrupted.

“Am I supposed to celebrate? I’ve already grieved for her, killed for her—” Ed states a little louder than necessary. Lee’s eyes go wide, hand on Ed’s shoulder, a finger to her lips trying to tell him to be quieter. Some of the children stop running near them, glancing over. “I had the desire for a life with her, and then avenged her when it was taken from me, and for what purpose? The Court got what they wanted, and I came out the other end more evolved—”

“To be frozen and sent back to square one,” Lee adds pointedly.

“The events with Isabella made me better.”

“Isabella didn’t make you better, Oswald did.”

Ed’s mouth snaps shut, more confused than ever, even when Lee tries to explain, “your need to become that person, came from killing Oswald and losing your friend. He always saw you for who you could be. I still see you as Ed Nygma, but that’s not enough for you, it will never be enough. I’m not here to put restraints on you and tell you that Isabella wouldn’t have been the obvious safer option, but you would’ve never been happy.”

All of it causes a shift, the words making Ed feel unnaturally warm. Everything feels suffocating, his clothes, the air in the building, the rowdiness of the children. It’s all too much. Why couldn’t they have had this conversation anywhere else?

Of course, Oswald knew him better, they’d always operated with full disclosure, with a sense of an open connection Ed had experienced with no one else, functioned sometimes without even needing to say a word, explanations unneeded because of trust.

But everything with Isabella had still happened, whether she was real or not.

It didn’t take away that Oswald had wronged him, it didn’t fix it. It put a bandaid on it, sure, with a new promise that wounds could heal, but where would things even begin? If the Court of Owls had deciphered Oswald could be so easy to predict that he’d have a jealous fit, or that they would’ve fought over Isabella, or that Ed would’ve been easy to control under Isabella’s care, perhaps there was more to their entire dynamic that Ed had been fervently ignoring. Things Ed didn’t understand, but everyone else seemed to.

“She was a… it was all a gambit,” Ed says, with a tone marked by wary acceptance, “to be used against what Oswald and I had, because they saw us… weaker apart.”

“When you’d always been strongest as a team.”

Ed’s not cognizant towards Lee’s expectations of him, she’s waiting for him to conjure up conclusions, draw a map to an element he hasn’t fully discovered. She sighs, relinquishing him of the task, realizing the silence is enough to know Ed isn’t immediately dismissive towards her observations, simply isn’t ready to acknowledge them.

He’s provided with some relief when Martin comes barrelling between them, holding a sawed-off shotgun which looks enormous in his tiny hands, they both share an equal look of terror before Lee plucks it away from him, checking that it’s unloaded.

One of the parents has the decency to look sheepish, coming over to recover the item, putting it in her tote bag.

“Only in Gotham,” Ed and Lee mention at the same time, both content to see that their friendship wasn’t impacted by any of what had occurred in the last space of time.

* * *

Later, once they’ve paid some of the attendees to clean up after the party, they return to the apartment upstairs, finding Martin surrounded by half-built toy scraps that were given to him as gifts by the other children.

 _‘I can use them to make something even bigger,’_ Martin signs excitedly, pushing them all into the centre of the living space. Ed makes more room by moving the coffee table to underneath one of the windows.

“We have something else for you,” Lee calls, going into one of the bedrooms, coming out with three gift bags. Martin comes over excitedly, sitting down on the stool in front of the island next to the kitchen. Lee gives him the first bag, saying it’s from her and Grundy, then the second saying it’s from Ed, and the third saying it’s from Oswald.

Martin immediately grabs for the smaller bag that’s from Oswald, pulling out the tissue paper in a flurry, Ed catching it before it can meet the floor, handing it to Lee to refold and reuse another time. Martin takes out the small box, shaking it back and forth in his hand, before popping off the top. The key is attached to a chain that he can wear around his neck. He looks from Lee to Ed, wondering what it’s for.

“It’s for Oswald’s family mansion,” Ed provides. “As an affirmation you will always have somewhere to call home.”

Martin’s eyes get teary, flipping the key back and forth in his palm, before placing the chain around his neck. He grabs for the gift bag from Ed, much bigger than the other one. Ed helps him remove the set of books, but lets him unwrap it. Martin nods appreciatively, signing _‘what happened to the T?’_ Ed shrugs, unsure, really. Something about the previous owners not liking the validity of something discussed and striking obscenities through it.

Martin unfolds the wrapping paper to the puzzle, ecstatic by the prospect of it. Lee and Grundy’s gift is a set of proper brushes and paints, for Martin’s own personal use in the apartment, rather than risking the Narrows populace getting their hands on it and ruining them. A tear falls along Martin’s cheek that he’s quick to wipe away, and Ed’s heart feels far too full.

“That’s not all though!” Ed deflects with a bright grin, going to the stove and pulling out the cake from inside. While Barbara and Lee had been talking, he’d come upstairs to put the finishing touches on it. Ed brings it over after lighting the candles, and Lee and him start a rendition of happy birthday, with the correct name. Ed puts the cake down in front of him, watching fondly as Martin blows out the candles, eyes clenched shut.

Once the cake has been sliced, pieces handed around for the four of them, Ed notes the empty stool at one end of the island, and thinks he’s probably wishing for the same thing Martin had.

Minutes pass in a happy silence, Lee commenting on Ed’s baking and how surprised she is it actually tastes decent, but recalls the time Ed had brought an addition for dinner to her and Jim’s old apartment, and shouldn’t be so shocked.

At some point, mid-laugh about Grundy’s food not knowing how to stay in his mouth, Martin drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter, slapping at his chest. At first, they think he’s choking, but air is still escaping from his lips, just significantly reduced. Ed looks to Lee, completely frightened in his seat next to Martin, absolutely no clue what’s happening.

Martin grasps the island, one hand hitting his knee, skin going pale. His nose is running, and the wheezing is getting worse. There’s a puffiness to his lips that Lee immediately recognizes.

Lee’s at her feet, racing around to Martin’s side, soothing hand on his back. Ed’s gone slack in his chair, in utter dread. Lee is asking him something, but he can’t hear it. Lee’s snapping her fingers in front of his face, but he’s entirely frozen.

“EDWARD, what did you put in the cake?” Finally reaches his ears.

Ed starts to list the ingredients slowly, watching Martin curl over the island, as Ed stumbles through his words, “—almonds—”

“He’s allergic to nuts,” Lee states in a rush, scanning the room frantically, and then points to the drawer next to the couch. “Ed, relax. Get the epipen from inside the drawer,” she commands, when Ed still doesn’t move, she shouts, “now, damnit!”

Ed gets to his feet, chair toppling over behind him. He practically lunges to the drawer, opening it and noting several epipens inside, and for the first time had wished he’d been present when Oswald had first stepped into the Narrows, to avoid this entirely. Ed hands it to Lee, and she pops off the blue tab, holds the device the distance required from Martin’s thigh, swings and jabs the orange tip against his outer thigh, waiting for the ‘click’ of the injection. After half a minute, she removes the device, and Martin kneads his fingers against his thigh.

Eventually, the energy in the room settles, Martin comes to, breath normalized. He catches how guilty Ed looks, keeping a distance between them, and signs, _‘it’s okay, it’s happened before. You didn’t know.’_

It doesn’t provide Ed much of a remedy, overwhelmed with being disappointed in himself. As the evening progresses, and they've taken Martin to the ER under a new pseudonym, seen an old contact of Lee's, Ed has the need to never leave Martin’s side once they've returned. All of it way too much for one day. Ed stays with Martin long after he’s read through Beauty and the Beast, and Martin’s teasingly signed asking if Grundy’s the Beast and if Lee is Belle.

Ed’s sure it’s supposed to make him laugh, but he’s far too bothered by previous events to do so. Ed continues to refuse to leave his side, perching himself on top of Martin’s covers while the child gets comfortable, nestling against Ed’s side as he opens ‘Enigmas of the Mystical’. Ed wraps an arm around his shoulders, to allow Martin better access to see the pictures in it as he reads.

Not once has Ed ever thought a child would have such an impact on his life in such a short period of time.

Kristen—Isabella—he’d been adamant with them about his unwillingness to have children. Neither had pressed the issue, it was the pleasantry of young and naïve relationships that never saw the light of vital arguments. The conversation was on a long line of stepping stones pertinent to the average relationship, but Ed had never gotten out of the honeymoon phase with either of them to fully experience it.

Now he wasn’t even involved, and should be even further from taking on this kind of role. He didn’t know what to do with it, but the thought of losing Martin, and being the cause of it, he’d never felt a scare that immense.

Maybe he shouldn’t equate it to something like a parental role at all, he didn’t exactly have a proper example of a parent to go by when it came to that responsibility. He was content to be Martin’s confidant, co-conspirator as he had once been referred to by the boy, during a teaching on the differences between two specific chemicals. Lee pretended as if she wasn’t aware of their importance to effectively cleaning up crime scenes and disposing of evidence, she let Ed have that one.

Always enthusiastic Martin soaked up the information like a sponge, intrigued and inspired, as he always seemed to be with Ed. It was glorious, having such a captive audience to his teachings, considering how often he used to be cut off from speaking at all through the years.

There was a chance that Martin put more value on his life than many people had, could really only be comparative to one — who was also always enthused and enthralled to hear Ed speak, even if it was sometimes met with irritation.

What would things have been like if Isabella had never appeared at all? What could he derive from thinking if he’d been given the chance to respond to Oswald’s proclamation, what would he have said?

Would it have negated Martin’s involvement in either of their lives?

Or could it have been a path they walked altogether? Oswald not locked away behind bars, but perhaps still mayor, able to adopt him as a redeemed member of high society, no second Arkham incarceration scarring his history.

There’d be no chance of legally adopting Martin now.

Would they have made some version of a dysfunctional family?

Ed scratches a line along the arm wrapped around Martin, listening to his even breaths marking how sound asleep he was. Ed begins to pinch at the redness left behind from his nails, old habits for thoughts he was told weren’t supposed to be had.

It’s not a line of thinking he had the time to imagine until now, and it was causing more harm than good, distress making his heart beat incessantly fast.

This was terrifyingly treacherous territory.


	9. Bright and Early for their Daily Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed’s path to self-actualization starts with a tumultuous visit at Arkham and ends at the Van Dahl mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the last six tags since the last chapter, so please double-check them.

When Lee finds them the next morning, ‘Enigmas of the Mystical’ fallen to the floor, Martin appears far comfier snuggled up against Ed than Ed must be; Ed’s glasses canted, halfway up his forehead, an imprint of the bed frame he’d been leaning on lining his cheek.

Lee stifles a laugh, pulling out her cell phone to steal a picture. She hesitates on the share button, remembering who was in the same vicinity of the recipient. She’ll just have to show it to her in person.

Ed is woken up by Lee's laughter down the hall, after having escaped the room. Ed accidentally lets Martin shift against him as he slips off the small bed, not realizing the dead weight was another human being, as well as a heavy, wool patchwork blanket that must’ve been added sometime during the evening. He situates Martin more comfortably on one of the pillows, draping the extra blanket over him.

Ed's dreams had been filled with nothing but regrets. The last time anything was this vividly painful was usually due to drug filled hallucinations, which truly must’ve been an era from a fever dream, not rooted in any reality that Ed desires to ever remember. Ed finds a particularly intriguing bit of skin to chew on the edge of his thumb, briefly pausing from his thoughts as Martin realigns himself in the blankets – still sound asleep.

Isabella had been a catalyst, he recognizes it now. Altering the progress made from sprung Arkham efforts, mended wounds, tea times, glances that expressed what words couldn’t, admiration that festered and bloomed where it had always been. Murder had transformed it all, made something so perplexingly beautiful in its design, wretched and decayed.

Ed didn’t do well with betrayal, he never had. Whether it was from goons who only knew one way at the GCPD, to bullies that acted like friends, who followed from pre-school to high-school, to the way his father showed affection through a lack of physical contact unless it involved punishment. The context and variety may have jumped between emotional and physical, but how it scarred Ed was the same.

People were put into boxes with Ed. Usually, everyone was met with a chance. Everyone was disposable, given the right reasons. Oswald had been on a different level to everyone though, Ed knew that. He’d carried a fascination for too long to not understand that.

He couldn’t connect how to re-write what had been decided when Isabella’s true killer had been revealed. It was cemented that Ed would never be an ally to Oswald again. This was already in the revision process with his visits to Arkham, all of this served to accelerate the process.

Ed had also been forced to think about the circumstances if Oswald had carried this information with him, not offering it up to save himself from being killed, which was a sacrifice in and of itself. Ed had lived with the sentiment that Oswald couldn’t carry a capacity for selflessness for far too long.

But Martin, this, _many_ other examples Ed had extinguished from his mind, had shown him a version he always knew was there but suppressed by Oswald’s duplicity.

Ed releases a breath. What he didn't understand was devolving into a projection of anger, and he couldn't allow it to be on display around a child, or even Lee. He was not his father. He needed out of the Narrows.

* * *

Ed doesn’t recall the trip he takes to get to Arkham. He doesn’t know if he took the proper evasive measures. All this excess energy was leaving a haze. If this had been a year prior, he might’ve had something on hand to soothe his nerves. Now it was just indescript, raw, heart-racing vehemence that had Ed forgetting what the guard at the back entrance looked like, what hour it was, and didn’t have Ed asking why he was put into a different room than per-usual.

Ed doesn’t sit, even when Oswald enters and plops himself down in the steel metal chair. The guard moves to remove Oswald’s cuffs, Ed asks him not to, they both stare at him, confused. The guard shrugs, his pockets no lighter from the change of pace. Ed’s too off-kilter to tell whether Oswald’s bothered.

Ed wants control over this, but control has always been a two-way battle, and Oswald’s not one to lose. He knew this going in. Seconds go by in an uncomfortable silence, the first time in a while it has felt like this.

“Here to tell me you found Ivy?”

If Ed was a betting man, he’d wager Oswald had probably only asked to steer him from whatever conversation was about to erupt from Ed’s clear unease.

“Who?” Ed’s brow furrows, tension temporarily released by recalling their last conversation. “No. Haven’t had the time.”

“And I have nothing but,” Oswald moves his still-restrained hands into his lap. Whatever foul mood Ed had entered in, Oswald wasn’t keen on leaving limbs easily accessible. The guard likely wasn’t very invested in protecting him from being wrangled. “I will continue to wait with bated breath.”

There’s a strong chance Ed shouldn’t be as distraught as he is. He hasn’t thought this through clearly. Overreaction, maybe. But, it’s a year of his life lost. Of shootouts, ice tombs, lives lost, grief surmised by pills and apt hallucinations, and for what? Could they have avoided all of it in favour of a simple conversation?

If Oswald _did_ know, it would potentially distress Ed further.

“You did supposedly murder a child.”

“Supposedly.”

Ed fidgets, rolling the palm of his left hand over his opposite forearm, digging in. He’s losing steam. Oswald’s sheer presence grounds him, and in this moment, he doesn’t want it to.

“This isn’t particularly productive,” Oswald comments, as the minutes tick loudly past from the clock hanging over the door. “How was Martin’s birthday?”

“Did you know who Isabella was?” It escapes Ed’s mouth so quickly he doesn’t have time to register Oswald’s shift in composure.

“What?” Oswald’s tone is uncharacteristically low. “How am I supposed to reply to that?”

Ed doesn’t answer, so Oswald provides him with an escape.

“If you came here to rehash this, I can’t say I have much patience to entertain it. Perhaps in a different setting.”

Oswald’s too calm, it’s not nearly enough. Ed’s unravelled, unhinged, undecided, he wants Oswald to feel the same way. He wants Oswald to tell him he had always known. Maybe not always, but long enough to draw a definite conclusion to how she was a threat that needed to be dealt with.

“I just want to understand.”

“Understand _what_ , Ed?”

“If you knew what Isabella was, why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

It’s clear this wasn’t on the list of Oswald’s presumptions of conversation topics, the edge of his lip twitching. He pushes the chair back with bodyweight alone, bound hands assist in pushing him to his feet. “Because!”

“Because isn’t an answer, Oswald.”

“How was I supposed to tell you that this _person_ ,” Oswald’s hands flail together (comically so due to handcuffs) in a circular motion, voice raising as he moves to stand behind the chair, “who infiltrated our lives, who made you so euphoric, was a lie?”

“It would’ve been the truth.”

“And that would have changed things? Made my actions less obtuse for you? Suddenly shed this light on my reasoned failures?” Oswald was getting more frantic, matching Ed’s internal disarray. It was easier for Oswald to show this on the outside, Ed’s fire was starting to burn out. He hadn’t come for a fight, but he hadn’t come for a resolution either. “I admit that the truth could have provided a different alternative–”

“You regret it then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Oswald pressed his palms into the rim of the chair, pushing it forward roughly as the legs squealed, until it hit the bolted down metal table with a retired groan. The guard’s eyes flickered with mostly disinterest towards them. “Isabell _e_ ,” Ed’s glare prompts Oswald to cross his arms, but remembering he _can’t_ , just leaves his hands where they are in front of him, “Isabell _a_ , her endgame could have been to kill you, could have been to kill me, could have been to see you ripped away from City Hall for all I knew, and she was not worth keeping around to find out.”

Ed wants to say that _that’s not fair_ , that _you can’t make decisions for other people_ , that _you don’t know we couldn’t have been happy until she would’ve died_ , that– “you still killed her.”

“Would you rather I let her carry out her plan? What she’d been designed to do? It certainly hadn’t been to _love_ you.”

Ed is completely thrown off, energy diverted to a pool of furious disregard. “What gives you the right to decide something of that magnitude?”

“The right that knows how blind you were,” Oswald’s tone has choosily levelled, possibly realizing he’d been too harsh, or knowing this was the best course of action to take to calm Ed down. “Why would I just _let_ her kill you? Or, what would have happened if you had been the one to kill her? Or, had to watch her die? Would any of those scenarios been more befitting?”

It’s all more logical than he can accept in the moment, Ed’s silence softens Oswald’s features as he adds, “and you still hate me for it, shocking revelation.”

“That’s not what this is–”

“It’s how it sounds. What does this solve for you? What do you want the outcome of this conversation to _be_ , Ed?”

Ed’s shoulders slump, defeated. Oswald was always playing until checkmate. “I don’t know.”

The distance between them seemed now to be insurmountable. Oswald’s still vibrating from the flow, walls guarded, although the roll of his fingers around his opposite hand show enough for Ed to know that they are both matched in emotion, which was what he’d come here for, wasn’t it?

Oswald to be bothered as much as he was, and to not be completely unaware of it. To know that Ed _knew_ , with everything he wasn’t saying, there was more to this story than was originally understood. How even though this new tension was a steep staircase to climb, they were closer to being through it than before. They hadn’t been walking the same path at all before, were skirting on parallel lines, with the occasional guaranteed bout of intersection. This was different. Ed felt that, couldn’t understand it, but felt it. Oswald must have too.

“I can’t help you from inside an insane asylum,” Oswald offers, after the minutes pass in quiet. He pulls the chair out but doesn’t sit down.

“I’m not asking for your help.” It’s colder than Ed intends. “I don’t want you to misinterpret any of this.”

“What is there to misinterpret?”

Glances, feelings, hopes. Maybe Ed’s the one misinterpreting it. “It would be easier if you weren’t here.”

“Guess you should do what I asked then.” The hour isn’t close to being through, but they’ve both exhausted themselves.

Ed becomes more relaxed, Oswald doesn’t. Ed finally homes in on the fact they’re in a different ward. One that is usually used when a prisoner is recuperating from substantial injury, until deemed suitable to return to their ward. Ed notices then how dark the circles are under Oswald’s eyes. He notices when Oswald takes a breath, there’s a very faint sound of whistling. Either punctured lung, or pneumonia.

Ed’s stomach plummets, a crack in the cement, he can’t leave Oswald here.

“You should leave.” Oswald says, perhaps catching on to Ed’s growing concern, turning to the guard.

Ed doesn’t want to, he wants the silence Oswald brings him. He sits in the chair a few minutes longer, before deciding where he needed to go next.

* * *

Ivy regrets coming back to Gotham the moment she enters the Iceberg Lounge. Not because there is excitement curdled amongst anxiety for her first interaction with Oswald since she left, but because nothing is the same.

Of course, some things are. The backdrop that overlooks Gotham’s downtown is the same, the window panes are beautifully lit with a shade of purple that is very Oswald-esque.

However, all the other decorating that Ivy remembers assisting with is gone. The steel penguins that used to adorn the bar have been swapped with flowers lacking proper maintenance. There are other plants littering the rest of the space, hidden in dark corners with no possible exposure to sunlight. It would’ve been better if they were plastic, she isn’t sure what aesthetic appeal dead plants have, but this new aura that has overtaken the lounge isn’t one Ivy likes.

The rage for the dying life around her doesn’t subside when she sees Tabitha Galavan speaking with someone from behind the bar. It implies a few things, none of them good. Then she sees Barbara Kean, scrutinizing a wine glass with a vigorous swipe of a cloth. She hands them both back to the waitress in front of her, the scowl on her face message enough.

There is no sign of Oswald.

There’s a pit in Ivy’s throat that she hasn’t felt since she harboured Oswald in her old greenhouse, right around the time it was invaded by two of the people in this very room.

Whatever must have happened here, she’s not welcome. She needs to leave before someone supplies that information to her. She turns and is startled to find Selina directly behind her.

“Ivy?” Selina squints, taking in her attire. To be fair, she hasn’t had a proper shower in a few weeks, and has been hanging out in bushes and dirt, enough that it shows. Her previously grey sweatpants are covered in mud and leaves. Her red hair is more of the same. “Where have you been?”

“It feels a little bit like I’ve been down a rabbit hole,” she replies, leaning towards Selina as she reaches for a stray twig in Ivy’s hair.

“You look different.”

“A few weeks roughing it does that.”

“Like when you first got to the streets way back when?” Selina smiles, a rarity.

Ivy knows this time her looks haven’t changed, if anything there’s a maturity there that shouldn’t be. Her experimentation with various chemicals didn’t have any consequences to her appearance.

However, she had come back an entirely changed person. Her physiology was entirely reconstructed. She had abilities she shouldn’t. She was more in tune with the cries of the plant life around her in a way that was only quiet repose before. Now, she physically felt them calling to her for their suffering. It made her fingers twitch, her veins bled green.

“Where’s Penguin?” Ivy asks, she does want to tell Selina about who she is now, marked by a love for all of which didn’t have a voice, but this doesn’t seem to be the time.

The edge of Selina’s mouth quirks upward, Ivy knows it means bad news. “He’s in Arkham.”

Ivy’s brows knit, feeling a swell of emotion. She needed to reign the feeling in, any massive fluctuation in blood pressure tended to bring greenery where it hadn’t been. She was still learning control.

“For killing a child,” Selina continues, “and it’s my fault.”

Selina doesn’t get choked up, Ivy knows this, but the thread that’s holding Selina together breaks something inside of Ivy, and she can’t stop how roots appear underneath the closest barstool, curling around its legs, sounding strained as they stretch around the edge of the seat.

Selina’s eyes grow wide, watching it occur, whipping her head around to see if anyone else has noticed, before landing back on Ivy.

Selina gives Ivy enough of a look to say, ‘what the hell?’ but Ivy shakes her head. “We can talk about it later. What do you mean he killed a child? And how is that your fault?”

“Where have you been Ivy?” Selina counters. “Do you even know who Sofia Falcone is? Do you know you’re standing in the Sirens?”

“Why would Oswald kill a child? It doesn’t make sense.”

Selina sighs, “he’s done worse.”

“Has he though?”

“Cannibalism is pretty high up there.”

“To be fair, from the story I heard, he had a psychotic break after being brainwashed, and I don't think he actually ate them after.”

“Excusing action doesn’t take away guilt,” Selina taps the whip attached to her waist subconsciously with gloved fingers. Ivy tracks the movement, growing more unsettled.

“Things have really changed, huh?”

“Comes with growing up,” Selina shrugs, taking a step towards the stool to examine the realism of what had happened. She pulls off one of the gloves from her hand, touching the vines and roots, eyes shining with fascination. Barbara would see her as an asset, Tabitha would see her as a pain, Selina would be the deciding vote. “You could join us. Oswald’s not getting out any time soon and you can’t say he was ever nice to work for.”

Ivy’s interactions with Oswald had been akin to riding a roller coaster. Some days he was enthralled with the prospects of a future where he had all the chess pieces. He was happiest during these times, including Ivy on his plans, getting her input. Ivy felt like she served a purpose. But, residual guilt and frustrations for the events of the last few years would creep up, and they always seemed to leave Oswald worse for wear as the weeks went on.

Walls came up and Ivy’s immaturity didn't comprehend how pain had created them. She didn’t know how to offer advice, Oswald had always done that for her, or explained things through tough love and severe bluntness. It would usually take days for Ivy to digest it as advice. Oswald had always wanted the best for her. For her to understand how life was hard, but she could have anything she wanted if she worked hard. She’d stepped into a poor time of life for him and had stepped out when she didn’t know how to be essential anymore.

If she couldn’t help him with words, or be of value the way she was, she’d find a way she could be, and she had. She didn’t harbour resentment for him, they were family. Family fought, but they moved on.

“Cat, he didn’t kill the child. You have to admit that doesn’t sound like Penguin to you.”

It’s easy to believe something when everyone around you is telling you one story. Selina is about survival and running with Sofia meant just that. Barbara and Tabitha knew that too. It may only be temporary, the three of them had been around long enough to know thrones were always contested territory. Being stooges on the sideline was merely a factor.

“And if you feel as much at fault as you do, wouldn’t you want to find out the truth?” Ivy adds, seeing the gears shift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I hadn’t realized everything was so upside-down.”

Selina leans against the redecorated stool, taking a few extra seconds to think about who they could go to for the truth. “Sofia Falcone is too guarded. Even then, I’m not sure how much she knows.”

“We probably can’t get into Arkham without her being told either.”

“She seems to have Gordon wrapped around her finger, we could start there.” Selina suggests, giving Ivy a sympathetic glance. Jim Gordon was a sore spot for her.

“Can’t get far without him being involved in some way.” Ivy nods, telling Selina she’ll make do with the lingering hatred.

“Give me ten to get some gear and we’ll get out of here.”

* * *

Ed commandeers a car in the visitor’s parking lot of Arkham, stops in the Narrows to ‘borrow’ the key they’d given Martin a day before. Martin doesn’t question it, but Lee scolds him, asks where he’s going, where he’s been.

“I need a decent shower.” Ed offers, Lee can’t argue with that. Even she goes out of her way to get better water pressure. Ed taking a step to take care of himself was better than being self-destructive.

“You have your phone?” Lee asks, Ed nods. “Come back soon.”

He finds himself growing antsy at being stuck in traffic as he travels out of downtown Gotham, low music coming from the radio station he can’t name. He hits one of the bridges and picks up speed, until he reaches the suburbs and pine trees line either side of the road.

The Van Dahl residence is a route he has memorized, even if it’s been awhile. The gate creaks open as Ed approaches, the motion sensor a little slow, and the car rolls onto gravel road. He parks the car respectfully in the carport, as opposed to grass.

There hasn’t been any professional upkeep in months, but bills were still being paid for the electricity and water. Whether that came from Elijah’s will to ensure the house was always a viable living space, or Oswald diverting his inheritance, Ed didn’t know. He walks the short distance to the large oak door, pushing the key into the lock.

He pauses, trying to recall the last time he’d been there. Oswald hadn’t made it sound like he would never be welcome again, he’d even specified Ed would get another key. It still felt strange. He gets through the thoughts, turning the key.

The door opens to a flurry of dust. Ed puts his face into his jacket’s sleeve, his eyes tearing up. After coughing fits and several sneezes, he assesses the foyer to the home. Despite the film of dust over everything, it still felt like somewhere worth coming back to.

It only felt like home when Oswald was with him, but this was still a source of comfort.

As Ed finds towels sealed away in a cabinet outside the master bedroom ensuite, he shuffles his weight from side to side. Eventually, he chooses to not use Oswald’s bathroom, walking the short distance to his old room.

It looks the same. Why wouldn’t it?

Ed visualizes Oswald coming up to the room, sometime after freezing him, seeing its destruction. Ed had torn out all the drawers in his room, scattered his clothes, upturned his bed. The mirror in the bathroom had been shattered, but the glass was no longer on the floor as evidence.

In truth, Ed had forgotten any of it had happened. An evening of simmering in grief and drugs had resulted in this, oh so many evenings prior.

Ed turns the tap, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Maybe there’s something to be said about time and forgiveness, about unfinished sentences and desperate measures. Maybe Oswald had always been doing things he thought were the best for Ed, in the only way he knew how. Even if that meant a lack of communication.

 _‘You didn’t think it was strange the way she acted?’_ A voice perked up, his own, startling Ed from staring at the stream of water. It was in his head, he realized, after checking the bedroom and hallway. It’d been a while since something other than his normal thoughts were this intrusive. _‘For someone so smart, rationality went out the window on that one.’_

“I thought I was being given a second chance,” Ed procured, although entertaining his auditory hallucinations was likely not the right course to take. “She only knew so much. I should’ve known there was something to her peculiarities.”

_‘Like her obsession with novels where couples would only die?’_

Ed nods, to himself. “It was like she didn’t have a clue what the real world was supposed to be like.”

_‘She lived in books and theories.’_

Ed shuts his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Ed was no longer spiralling as he had been that morning. He didn’t need someone to take over. He’d been through that already, he had learned from it, from Kristen. This version of Ed, the confident, self-serving one, was only ever around to ensure Ed went the direction _he_ wanted him to.

_‘Oh, Eddie, we’re past that. Believe it or not, I’m here to help. You need a little bit of a push.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..I was told at some point I don't need to apologize for long waits between chapters, but honestly, if you're still reading after waiting for 6 months I probably appreciate you more than words can say.
> 
> Also, for purposes of pure self-indulgence, Ivy still looks like Maggie.


	10. I Find It Hard To Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“—there’s just so much paperwork, who knew being a cop was thirty percent thrill and seventy percent paperwork? And then there are the non-stop HR issues, it’s like everyone here is a five-year-old—”_

* * *

When Ed makes it back to the Narrows, Lee gives him a glance nowhere near as suspicious as it should be. He has a voice following him and even though it had given him enough of a break to shower, it hasn’t let up since. Everything from _‘wasted potential’_ to _‘this place needs to burn to the ground’_ to _‘when are we going to Arkham next, Ed?’_

Distressed doesn’t even begin to describe how Ed feels or looks. Perhaps Lee doesn’t take notice because he’s perfected hiding it, or perhaps she doesn’t notice because she’s busy pretending she doesn’t have anything to be suspicious about too.

Either way, Ed doesn’t feel as if he’s been provided with any clarity, even though it was a promise made, likely will remain unkept. His inner voice has never been particularly consistent. He hasn’t been told what means to an end would be provided by making a trip to Arkham, but his other self hasn’t exactly let up about it for the last six hours.

 _‘I want to ensure you’re living your best life,’_ it’s so sarcastic Ed scowls and he doesn’t need the visual representation to know the face on the other end is very pleased with himself.

“It’s a bit late, but,” Lee waves the newspaper in front of Ed’s face, crossword from last week in hand, “the kids are in bed and we have some time.”

Ed nods, an overlay of another voice telling him _‘time’s just a construct to delay the inevitable’,_ pulling an audible groan from him.

“Okay, if you have something else in mind–”

“No, this is fine.”

Lee lays the crossword out on the table between them, passing a pencil for Ed to go first. Lee watches him print LOUIS to answer ‘One of 18 French Kings’, already prepared to answer one on her own. “Did you get any answers on your excursion today?”

“Only that hot water still exists outside the Narrows.”

“I have to leave early in the morning to track some people down,” Lee starts, pursing her lip, writing in PENNY LANE. “I need Grundy to accompany me. So, you’re on babysitting duty.”

“When am I not?” It probably sounds more bitter than it needs to.

Lee raises a brow, shaking her head lightly. She fills in five more lines out of spite, leaving behind some extremely easy ones to fuel Ed’s chagrin. “How did seeing Oswald go?”

“So well I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know, I thought about how much it would’ve sucked if Oswald had dropped off a teenager instead of a child when I had a run-in with Bruce Wayne,” Lee pauses. Ed shoots her a disapproving glance. “Yes, I am now comparing you to a teenager.”

“Oswald knew who Isabella was when he made the decision to kill her,” Ed answers monotonously, giving her something to work with.

Lee hums in acknowledgement. Oswald usually didn’t rhyme without reason, she learned that through conversations with Jim. “Did it provide you with any solace?”

“He betrayed our friendship.”

“To save you.”

“Potentially. We don’t even know if there had actually been a plot to end my life.”

_‘Have you tried thinking about it in reverse?’_

It takes Ed a second – despite it clearly not being Lee’s voice – to realize it was his own. He shakes his head. Lee visibly hesitates handing the pencil back to Ed, watching his movements. “Are you going to see him again?”

 _‘She knows crazy like the back of her hand, Eddie.’_ Ed takes the pencil, putting the eraser end to his temple, contemplating the task at hand. It wasn’t going well. _‘But really, think about it in reverse. You remember how you got with Butch. You_ _would’ve killed him too. Anyone really. So long as they threatened Oswald’s life.’_

Something done out of protection isn’t the same as something done out of jealousy.

_‘But, you were jealous once too, weren’t you, Ed? And you know now jealousy wasn't the motive.'_

“I can’t until I find Ivy Pepper.” Ed finally answers, realizing he’d let it linger too long.

“Oh! Cat’s—Selina Kyle’s friend. I’ve heard about her.” Jim’s demons generally made for good pillow talk.

“Yes, well, from what the kids in the Narrows say, no one’s seen her in weeks.”

“Usually that means they’re not coming back.”

When Ed had told Oswald he hadn’t had time to find her, he’d really meant that he hadn’t put enough force into it. Everyone’s information had been the same. He didn’t like the suggestion that her absence for weeks could mean she was likely dead, Ed wasn’t sure how Oswald would handle the news.

Therefore, he had left it on the backburner. He’d have to find confirmation of a dead body or a breathing one. Both seemed difficult to do.

“Problem for tomorrow, Ed.” Lee outstretches her hand for him to pass the newspaper back, offering a slight smile, ostentatious in its delivery considering it didn't improve the mood at all.

* * *

Oswald doesn’t like the smell of the infirmary.

Scratch that, he absolutely detests everything to do with the infirmary. He was only being fed food he can drink, not because it was all he could handle, but because they had _nothing_ else.

It’s days after Ed’s hurricane of a visit, a Wednesday, when Oswald’s a day away from being moved back to his previous room, and a different guard comes to haul him out of bed.

“Cobblepot, on your feet. You have a visitor.”

Ed’s the only visitor he’s had since arriving at Arkham. He can’t imagine there’s much left to be said from days before and he likely hasn’t located Ivy yet, so why bother?

A little part of Oswald wishes his visits were a comfort for Ed versus what they are, even if their interactions would never be on the same level they used to be. He knew they offered some sort of minimal relief to Ed, even if they usually started off tense and terse. They were both far too tightly wound from heavy-set memories, and even if the conversations sometimes started off-pace, things between them _had_ marginally improved.

Until Ed came barrelling in on a mission armed with information Oswald was hoping had been buried with a corpse.

He’d be lying if the thought of killing Isabella hadn’t been top of mind the moment she entered their lives, but they were selfish dreams he curbed. Oswald prided himself on being a good judge of character and Isabella had given him cause for concern from the get-go. He might’ve let it be had she not dyed her hair and gone on a binger to be the manifestation Ed needed for another chance.

Coming from Oswald who appreciated the dramatic, it was too much.

Too much on the spectrum of forcing love where confusion lay, forming superficial desire, instead of anything long-lasting. Oswald knew he only had one love, he would’ve let Ed go for someone who could bring about the best in Ed, not someone who thought so little of his mind.

There was also something desperately manipulative about it. So, he called the number he thought he never would and asked Fish Mooney about clones. Naturally, Strange joined the conversation too. Oswald received confirmation he hadn’t necessarily thought he would, forcing a decision to be made that satisfied a standing urge.

The aftermath was frigid history.

Oswald hasn’t regretted her being dead, only regrets the turmoil his actions caused in Ed. He’d been privy to information he wasn’t allowed, from a conversation with Barbara of shared taunts, where she let it slip how Ed coped with grief the way she used to. It stung, even though his expression hadn’t flickered.  _Pills_. Ed was always battling for control and hadn’t minded losing it to find some peace for what Oswald had caused.

Oswald’s thoughts stall as the guard knocks on the glass window to the control room, the last hall to the visitor’s wing.

He is mildly curious as to what state Ed will be in today, whether it’s one of renewed rage, or one of forgiveness. He hasn’t thought about Ed forgiving him, it never seemed possible. His feelings for Ed hadn’t lessened, only lay dormant. He hadn’t meant to strip Ed of happiness, but a world without Ed in it because of a plan he could’ve prevented, didn’t seem to be one worth living in.

At the time, it had all seemed justified.

The guard stops, keys jingling as he unlocks the door.

Oswald sucks in a breath.

To say he’s disappointed by who is waiting for him in the visitor’s area would be putting it extremely mildly.

The guard puts him in the seat opposite Sofia Falcone, and there’s a smirk playing on her lips, where there’s a frown growing on his.

“I wanted to see how you were fairing. I was told you had a cold,” she starts flatly.

Oswald’s silence is enough to make her roll her eyes. She doesn’t care for his health, they both know that. She cares about how easily accessible he is and she obviously hasn’t paid off _everyone_ in Arkham to get the information completely accurate. There’s a chance she thought this was a rouse, maybe she was checking it was him and not a stand-in. Maybe he’d already escaped or was hatching a plan to do so. All of it seemed far superior to what he was actually dealing with.

A damn _cold_ was a furious plague on Oswald’s already deteriorating state of mind.

“Is this where you meet Mr. Nygma?” Sofia glances around the room. “He seems to be doing much better. I am surprised you two can even talk without attempting to kill one another.”

Oswald doesn’t budge. He’s never wanted to kill Ed. She doesn’t know it all then.

“Does he bring gifts from dear Martin?”

More silence.

“Truly Oswald, you bore me. I came all this way and—”

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time.” Oswald interrupts, bitingly.

“Oh, so you haven’t lost your voice. Good boy.” Sofia’s smirk breaks out into a grin. “Do they even have the right antibiotics out here to treat you? Or is it a mix of whatever works and hope for the best?”

“Can you get to the point?”

“I simply came here to see how you were, no other intentions.”

The sharp laugh that comes from Oswald is followed by coughing that earns no points of sympathy from Sofia. Coughing subsided, Oswald’s adds hoarsely, “you and I are one and the same, Miss Falcone. I don’t believe you would ever show up here without intention.”

“What would freedom cost you, Oswald?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If I gave you an opportunity to break out of here, leave Gotham with Martin, money at your disposal, would you do it?”

The air feels very thick in the open room, charged with unbalanced power. “Why would you make such an offer?”

Sofia shrugs, pausing, choosing her truth. “Taking your place had been an easy task but there are always whispers of you returning. It doesn’t seem like anyone will understand that I am a permanent fixture if you are still around. I want to be regarded seriously.”

Oswald leans back in the chair. He’d be doing Sofia a favour if he were to leave, but it comes at several costs. Gotham is his home. It’s Martin’s home. It’s Edward’s home. She hadn’t even mentioned Edward leaving too but it’s already in his mind. He had told Martin they wouldn’t see one another again, but this would right such a harmful memory placed on a child. He’d have an opportunity to have a family, even if it was only the two of them. He only had his mother when he was a child and he wouldn't trade that for anything.

“I’d be a fugitive,” Oswald unintentionally says out loud. There’s a more pressing thought outside of what Sofia has offered, one that seems hidden between colourful, hopeful words. “I’ve been cast out of Gotham before, you run the risk of my return. This sounds more like an attempt of ensuring I’m permanently out of the picture by putting a hit out once I’ve made it through the door.”

Sofia taps a manicured nail impatiently against the table, “I could’ve poisoned your food any time, Oswald. Or, had the doctors inject you. Our trust in one another is thin, but I don’t wish death upon you.”

 _Yet_ , seems very clear in her tone.

Oswald wants to appear as if he’s weighing his options and there is some amount of truth that he is. Ultimately, he never wants to leave his home. He doesn’t want to be on the run for the remainder of his life. There was already a guarantee Sofia wouldn’t allow him the privilege to live out his days. She’d arrange for him a ‘meet up’ with Martin after the escape, and it would likely end with a shot between the eyes.

“I’ll give you a week to decide,” Sofia says with finality, getting up from the seat, her long jacket glimmering with the poor lighting above.

Oswald’s trek back to the infirmary is quiet, in mind and empty halls. He’d rather it had been Ed, even if he was all fire and brim, Sofia’s sheer confidence in her proposal made Oswald feel more confined, suffocated.

He hadn’t gone a day without reminiscing of the last time he’d been in Arkham, of Strange and all his efforts. The effects hadn’t lasted, but the mental wear and tear had been enough to traumatize him. He felt unsettled every day he left his cell, concern fluttered if he was brought too close to where those memories were, he hadn’t felt rested in months.

He was lucky to have a few distractions, odd visits and Jerome’s desire to be anywhere else. Oswald still wasn’t keen on the ‘burn it all’ mantra but nodded along with it anyway. He wondered how much of a pain Jerome will inevitably be, what he’d turn into if he got out before Oswald. If Jerome would like how Sofia operated, perhaps step under her umbrella, create more of a force to keep Oswald trapped.

He’d be putting Martin in more danger, it’d be a war. What would be the point then? He needs to get out before Jerome. Maybe that meant agreeing to Sofia’s terms just to see the outcome. Maybe that meant he doesn’t have nearly enough allies to help anymore. Maybe there hadn’t ever been that many to begin with. Maybe that meant staying in Arkham for some undisclosed amount of time. Maybe that meant going insane on his own volition.

Oswald doesn’t need to be led back to the terribly made hospital bed, with sheets due for a cleaning four months ago, so the guard leaves him at the door. Oswald begins his slow walk back to the bedside, thoughts swimming.

It felt like grasping at straws, the emotional strain had never been a detriment to his process before. He felt drained. Maybe it was the sickness. Arkham was a conduit in its creation, stripping Oswald of the idea of an outside world. Taking all his energy from trying to see every outcome. He knew who he still had on his side, but it still left him without hope.

It was a new low.

Oswald climbed into the bed, feeling a dull pain in his chest at the movement.

He shook his head.

He’d been at worse lows.

He’d rise again.

It felt like this for now, but tomorrow was a new day.

* * *

Jim Gordon has only been sighted at three places in the last month and a half. The precinct recorded at taking up at least eighty percent of his time. According to Selina’s informant, one of those other places had been his apartment, the other had been the Falcone residence. They didn’t need to pay anyone to connect the dots.

Since it was a Thursday, Jim wouldn’t dare set foot in Sofia’s home, not while it was thrumming with criminal activity. Thursday’s had been affectionately named, ‘Turn-In Thursday’, to mark an occasion of money passing hands for information, or proof of bodily harm, or various other criminal deeds.

“She reminds me of a mix of Oswald and Jerome type of crazy,” Selina says as they sidestep into an alley a few blocks from the precinct. “Like there’s structure there, then there’s a ‘bring down an apocalypse’ kind of vibe.”

“Seems dangerous,” Ivy nods, “ _and_ she doesn’t care about plants.”

Selina knows Ivy’s love for plants has stretched through childhood and beyond, she’s never once thought it was strange. Everyone had their own niche. Selina was still looking for hers, usually it led her to the outskirts of Gotham.

They take the back entrance where the dead come through, Selina knows its location only because she’d been paid a long time ago to pretend to be one of the bodies. The previous reigning Falcone had set a bounty for the retrieval of incriminating evidence on someone who’d been killed by Maroni’s men, Selina came back in record time. She can’t remember the last time she made five hundred bucks so quick.

It’s hard to smuggle in someone who looks incredibly out of place, but then again… GCPD has had worse interlopers. Ivy had barely managed to scrape off the mud from her shoulders before they ventured out, but they make do as is. Up the stairs from the basement, down the dimly lit hall, at the next set of stairs where – _‘Harper? Is that her name?’_ – is pulled away by another detective and they’re in the captain’s office before anyone’s the wiser.

Selina draws the blinds while Ivy waits for Jim to get off the phone. He doesn’t look particularly phased by their entrance.

“Top notch security here, Gordon,” Selina says, turning around once the side blinds are drawn too.

Jim puts a finger in the air while making an excuse to hang up the phone, leaning back in his chair. Selina’s not a threat and Ivy _with_ Selina isn’t much of one either. “The riff-raff don’t usually get out once they’re in.”

“I can literally think of three different times that hasn’t been the case—”

“What can I help you two with?” Jim cuts in, getting up from his chair, snapping his badge to his waist, pistol into its holster, “I don’t want to cut our time short, but I have to be somewhere.”

“Visiting the newest fling, Jimbo?” Selina steps between him and the door. Ivy stands directly behind her, pulling a bottle from her pocket out of his line of sight.

Jim slows to a crawl, before regaining normal speed to the coat rack, prying his jacket from the hook. “What’s it to you?”

“Have you gone to visit Penguin since he was locked up?” Selina continues.

“Haven’t been particularly inclined.”

“Right.”

“Right,” Jim pauses, one arm in his jacket, eyebrows raised. “Is that it? Am I free to go?”

Selina steps closer, Ivy steps with her. “So, you going to see Sofia?”

Jim flicks the jacket on the rest of the way, watching as Ivy slings an arm around Selina’s shoulder, feigning disinterest by scrutinizing the nails on her other hand. It was mildly humorous – Selina, arms crossed, Ivy using their difference in height to lean against her.

“Was going out to find Harv, actually.”

“How about you answer some questions for us instead?”

It’s the first time Jim hears Ivy speak and it throws him off. She uses it to her advantage, snapping the wrist over Selina’s shoulder upwards, aiming it in Jim’s direction. Jim sees what looks like a perfume bottle too late as his nostrils are filled with lavender and then a taste so bitter it sends him reeling back, coughing, trying to spit out whatever he’s been sprayed with onto the floor. He grips the coat rack.

There’s a haze to the room, Jim feels compelled to talk about it. He swallows the urge with another coughing fit.

“C’mon Jim, relax a little,” Ivy walks around him, wheeling his desk chair to him. Jim slides into it, hand still on the rack, his other hand at his throat.

“What did you do to me?” Jim asks through coughs, croaky.

Ivy rolls her eyes, hands still on the rim of the chair, positioning it to face Selina. “Not nearly as much as you think I have.”

“Where you going tonight, Gordon?” Selina asks again.

“I already told you, I’m going to find Harvey Bullock. I was told he was somewhere close to the Narrows, working as a bartender. He was a great partner and I’m in over my head—”

Jim continues to rattle on, staring a hole into the floor next to Selina’s foot.

He hasn’t produced anything valuable yet, Selina stretches her arms out, throwing them to rest behind her head. She regards Ivy with pride, “guess we know it works.”

“Who knew he could talk so much.” Ivy smiles at the praise, at least, that was praise with Selina.

“—there’s just _so_ much paperwork, who knew being a cop was thirty percent thrill and seventy percent paperwork? And then there are the non-stop HR issues, it’s like everyone here is a five-year-old—”

“I almost wanna leave him here and come back in an hour,” Ivy jokes but Selina scowls. “Yeah, yeah, we don’t have that kind of time.”

“We really don’t,” Selina pulls off one of her gloves, reaching back and smacking Jim across the cheek with it. “Focus!”

Jim’s startled out of his rant, realizing with a confused scrunch of his eyebrows that he’s divulged far too much information for no reason. “Why did I—?”

Selina leans forward, eye to eye. “Jim, why is Oswald in Arkham?”

“Because he killed a kid, it was all over the news. You were even there. Isn’t Zsasz working under Sofia, didn’t he relay all of it? You know, it’s such a shame though, I never thought Oswald would do—”

“Yeah, us neither.” Ivy agrees. “How did you find out about it?”

“Sofia told me about it, that she tried to protect Martin from Oswald—”

Ivy glances at Selina knowingly. They had had a conversation on the way over that recounted a different story.

“—I don’t know if I believe it much now though.”

That piques both their interests. Selina prods, “why’s that?”

“Well, she had her own father murdered and all. Then there’s this whole fiasco that happened where she killed the Pyg in front of me. Did you hear about him?”

Selina shakes her head no. Jim continues, “his real name was Lazlo Valentin—”

“Why does that change your opinion on Penguin?” Selina snaps her fingers in front of Jim’s face.

“If she’d lied about so much for so long, what’s not to say she lied about that?”

“Does anyone else know about Sofia killing Pyg?” Ivy thinks to ask.

Jim’s eyes go wide, glancing from Selina and turning to look at Ivy over his shoulder. “How do _you_ guys know about it?”

Selina rolls her eyes, leaning back, tilting her head up to count to ten with the holes in the ceiling.

“Sorry, it’s probably a lot stronger than it needs to be. I’m still working out the kinks,” Ivy mumbles, taking her hands off the chair to put them into her pockets. She rolls the bottle between her fingers.

“Might be best if he ends up not remembering any of this,” Selina shrugs, head straight, zeroing in on Jim. “Do you know where the kid is?”

“What kid?” Jim’s confusion is back, ten-fold even.

“Martin!” Selina hushes herself, not meaning to be so impatient. She wonders if Jim even knew his name. Or, was he just the boy under the bridge? Did it matter so little? How many dead kids had Jim come across through the years? It made Selina sick. “Is he alive?”

“No clue. Maybe you should find Victor Zsasz, he’s the one that knew all about it anyway. Although, weren’t you there? Didn’t you witness it too?”

Selina presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Okay, I’m beyond done with this.”

After propping Jim up behind his desk, handing him a bottle of water and advising him to flush out his senses once they were out of the room, they made it out the way they came without incident.

Once they've made it into the alleyway behind the precinct, Ivy walks backwards in front of Selina, chattering about a better chemical blend that could make information easier to gather if the victims didn’t lose their attention spans.

Selina suddenly stops, alarmed, as Ivy backs up into a very solid figure.

Ivy jumps forward, turning on her heel to meet Victor Zsasz’s rather disinterested expression.

“Ladies,” Zsasz places his thumbs behind his suspenders, “get lost on the way home?”

Ivy backs up as Selina steps in between them. Selina frowns, “something like that. Why are you here? On Captain watch?”

“Something like that.” Pause. “Was your conversation with Jim illuminating?”

Very little needed to be said for the two of them to feel threatened, even if Zsasz wasn’t there to be threatening. Selina lurches forward on instinct alone, Zsasz strafes to the left as she passes him, a glint catching Selina’s eye as she momentarily loses her footing, coming to a sudden halt a few feet away.

Zsasz whistles. Selina sees another glint, confirmation of a blade going up his sleeve. Her eyebrows furrow with the blinding pain that suddenly overtakes her senses. She puts a hand to a spot above her waist, pulling it back to see blood. It’s nothing lethal, nothing vital, Selina knows that’s not a mistake on Zsasz’s part. He doesn’t make mistakes.

Ivy doesn’t know she'll be okay, all she knows is her longest friend has just been stabbed and she did nothing to stop it. Before Selina can say anything, roots and vines are clawing their way up Zsasz’s legs, holding him in place. One of the branches that comes from it stretches out enough to reach his chest, its' point as sharp as any knife.

“Ivy, no!” Selina clutches her stomach, everything was moving too fast. She reaches Ivy’s side, placing her hand on her arm, her face immediately softens as she looks down at Selina. The branches lessen on Zsasz, relinquishing their hold entirely except for at his ankles.

“That’s…” Zsasz starts, trying to shuffle his feet to no avail. “Different.”

“What do you know about Martin?” Selina asks as Ivy looks her over. The blood has mostly stopped, it won’t prevent Ivy from being worried.

“We need to get this checked, I can help—” Ivy starts, taking off her scarf and then second-guessing the decision given all the dirt.

“You should go see the doc, kitty cat. It’s superficial, but she’ll fix you up.” Zsasz interrupts, bent down now with a much larger knife in hand. They’re both unsure _where_ it came from, but equally curious.

“Who?” Ivy asks.

 _Lee_.

“Head down to the Narrows. She'll be happy to see you."

Selina winces with discomfort as Ivy puts pressure on the wound, completely transfixed. When Selina looks back up to ask ‘ _why',_  Zsasz is gone, vines cut clean through, left in his wake.

* * *

Lee shivers, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself. She nods at Grundy for him to open the sliding door, which does take several seconds of realizing it _slides_ and doesn’t need to be entirely yanked off its hinges when it doesn’t open the way he expects it to. She lets out a breath, it comes out in a cloud from her lips.

The interior isn’t any warmer, she didn’t think it would be. They tried to knock before Grundy’s strength became useful, no one had answered. Now that they had stepped inside, they could hear loud music playing down the hall. They continued to wait in the entranceway. Lee looks down at the rug at her feet, smiling at the flowers and beautiful font of ‘ _home sweet home_ ’.

Grundy huffs, before moving further into the living space, finding what appears to be the kitchen and slumping onto the ground with a loud, vibrating sound.

The music immediately shuts off. Lee could hear the electronic sound of something turning on, before she receives confirmation from its wielder reeling around the corner, cryonic gun in hand. Victor Fries, white-tank clad with washed out jeans, aims it down at Grundy on the floor, before tilting it up at Lee.

Lee stands her ground, she had prepped Grundy not to engage before they’d gotten there. “Victor. Do you remember me?”

Victor takes a bit and nods, recognition clear. He lowers the massive weapon, tossing it onto the counter next to him. “You’re the doctor from Arkham,” adding calmly, but with enough venom that sends a shudder entirely unrelated to the below zero temperature, through Lee’s spine, “the one who helped me kill my wife.”


	11. Made to Feel the Way that Every Child Should

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their pride.

Lee prides herself on being able to read people. It’s been a selling point in life and career. Victor Fries was a risk of sorts, maybe not nearly as dangerous as other tasks she’s accomplished so far in life, but it could still be subject to scrutiny.

“I am sorry about Nora, Victor. The guilt I have will always be with me.”

“Guilt doesn’t bring her back.” He doesn’t say it with bite, or anger. There’s an acceptance there grown through grief.

“No, nothing will.”

It’s not a fair statement to make. People come back from the dead all the time in Gotham, two of the three in this room were examples of that, both scientific anomalies of Indian Hill. Lee can tell it’s a thought that crosses Victor’s mind too.

“She wouldn’t have fit into this world,” Victor adds instead, somberly. “She wouldn’t have loved me the same. But, you’re not here to talk about her, are you?”

Lee wishes she was, perhaps she could mend this bridge at a later date. “No, unfortunately not. I was wondering if you might want to participate in a prison break.”

Victor immediately pushes himself off the counter, turning to tinker with one of the switches on the gun, “I’m not helping Penguin.”

“You’d be helping me.” She knew this outcome was likely. Her source had mentioned there was bad blood.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Lee knows she doesn’t bear any weight on Victor’s motivation for action. She remembers when Nora had said he was a good man, how he’d always be a good man despite her part in how he’d changed. They should have been more hyper-aware of how sick she was, how guilt-ridden she must’ve felt for how desperate Victor was, how she had long accepted death. They both knew if she had survived, Victor would’ve been imprisoned, and life wouldn’t have been any happier. Lee is acutely aware of unpleasant prison visits, being a spouse on the other side, being turned away.

“But I can make sure you get a better lab than whatever you’ve managed to put together here,” Lee indicates, glancing around the dining room. Nothing here was indicative of domestic living, beakers on tables and counters full of concoctions that were likely lethal on contact. “Resources must be worth something to you.”

Victor let out something halfway between a chuckle and snort, “he promised me that already, look how far that got me.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep with my allies, Victor. Oswald may have been negligent, but I am not. You deserve to continue your research… to have a proper outlet to live a life within your condition. And despite how dysfunctional of a family you had, you shouldn’t dispute their value.”

Victor leans against the chilled counter, considering it. Even if she was lying, what difference did it make? He could still return here, it would just be an interim distraction.

Lee’s phone chimes from her pocket, she takes it out, pursing her lips.

“Problem?” Victor asks.

“No, not at all.” She flips the phone shut on the message from an unsaved number: _‘there should be a feline on your doorstep._ ’ “Do we have a deal?”

Still sceptical, Victor asks, “where’s the money coming from?”

“From the Falcone’s.” It’s mostly a lie, but Lee’s perfected her poker face when it comes to this. She does still have a minor fortune inherited from Mario, but she’s had it tucked away since his funeral. Its existence hadn’t aged well, and she had already been tempted to dip into it to keep the clinic stocked. She’d need to have Oswald pay, or find another way. Partially formed plans were better than no plan at all.

Victor nods, cautiously agreeable.

Lee smiles warmly, “I’ll be in touch.”

After watching Grundy attempt to reinstall the front door (forgetting it slid, despite Lee’s reminder) Victor tells him to stop, and Grundy lets it go with a loud bang.

Lee’s phone goes off again, this time a message from Ed: _‘Selina Kyle is here, injured.’_

Lee presses the button to call the elevator, texting back: _‘Life-threatening?’_

The elevator dings as her phone does too, with Ed’s reply:  _‘Well I do feel threatened.’_

Lee puts two fingers to her temple, rolling them, as another message comes through before her reception is decimated by descending to the first floor. _‘She’ll still be alive by the time you get here.’_

* * *

Selina prides herself on being able to survive. She survived the Narrows, being slapped by Alfred, assassins, cults, failed mothers, Bruce 2.0 featuring broken windows, Jerome, mass attacks on Gotham in general—she could say she has nine lives, but really most of the time it felt like luck and resilience.

She was lucky for the allies she has. There was a strong distinction between ally and friend, the latter of which she only had a few. Lee Thompkins, maybe. Ivy, always. Edward Nygma… wasn’t one of them.

Ivy had taken to holding Selina up by her weaker side, although really Selina didn’t need the support. They’d both assumed when they knocked on the door to Lee’s apartment, it would be Lee answering it, not Ed. It raised a lot of questions.

Ed’s glance cut from Ivy, still covered in dirt, to Selina mildly grimacing (whether from pain or having to interact with Ed again, who can decide), to where Selina has a hand pressed against her abdomen.

“Here to kidnap me again, Miss Kyle?” Ed asks with a touch of sarcasm, after pointedly sticking his head out into the hallway to check either end for further visitors.

“Not this time Riddledick, just happened to be in the neighbourhood and need some stitches,” Selina replies, lifting the hand off her stomach enough for Ed to see the blood. “Is Lee around?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Ivy perks up, whispering, shifting Selina’s weight off of her to stand on her own. “We can’t trust him.”

“Honestly right now I don’t give a crap who we can trust so long as I can get this cut cleaned out and closed before it gets infected, and I really don’t need Lee for that so,” Selina sighs, practically bulldozing through Ed into the apartment. She finds the closest chair at the dining room table, dropping onto it as it makes an absolutely nauseating squeal.

Ivy and Ed have a glare standoff in the entranceway, once she’s at least taken a step inside. Ed’s glare more about him trying to remember where he’s seen her before, Ivy’s more from knowing more than she wishes she did. Ed breaks the contact to flip open his phone to send a variety of texts, Ivy leaning forward to try to read them until Ed catches on and tilts it out of her line of sight. Once he’s satisfied with the messages, they return to their staring contest.

“You’re the one who had been with Oswald at his safe house,” Ed finally says, tension released from his eyebrows at how long it took to remember where he’d initially met her. “And the greenhouse, and the pier.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be smart or something?” Ivy glowers, she wasn’t keen on being in the same room as Ed, it was unsettling. There was a strong chance Zsasz has led them into a trap and talking to the green beanpole who had tried to kill Oswald wasn’t high on Ivy’s to-do.

“What’s your name?” The pitch in Ed’s voice changes, making Ivy’s eye twitch.

“Ivy Pepper, you stupid.”

Ed’s eyes are threatening to fall out of his sockets at the news, adding to Ivy’s ongoing list of red flags.

“I’ve been looking for you!” Ed exclaims, only serving to confuse Ivy further. “Well—no, that’s not right, I was tasked to find you.”

Ivy side-eyes Selina, taking an uneasy step closer to the dining room table, although it just traps them further in the apartment. Selina shrugs, mouthing, _‘I don’t know.’_

“It’s just—Oswald told me to look for you, and you weren’t exactly easy to locate.” Ed continues to blabber, slowly realizing how off-putting this must sound. He takes a breath. “I—okay, maybe I should let Lee explain things.”

“Maybe,” Selina concludes dully, palm still pressed against her stomach. “Where’s your girlfriend anyway?”

‘ _Girlfriend_.’ His own voice echoes. Ed’s attention entirely drawn away from Ivy as he regards Selina, instantly defensive, “she’s not my girlfriend. A friend who happens to be a girl, yes, but nothing more.”

“Little strange and all, you two living together,” Selina quirks a brow, wags a finger in the air, “like a package deal. Reminds me of when Oswald was mayor, you two were inseparable.”

“It’s not like that,” Ed realizes he’s not entirely sure which part was ‘not like that’, his own voice providing, _‘which bothers you most, the idea that you and Lee could be seen as a couple, or that you and Oswald were seen that way? Or, that the partnership you have with Lee is anything like what you had with Oswald? Or, is it all of the above?’_

Selina waits for Ed to finish his thought, which he doesn’t, she tips her head back against the chair, wondering what was worse, the injury, or dealing with far too much idiocy for one day.

*

Ivy prides herself on seeing beauty in foliage. Usually, she’s the only one that sees it, believes in it. Sees the world as an entity to take care of, as opposed to taking advantage of. She’s used to the murmurs of her ‘imbalance’, or her ineptitude to be a proper child with other interests. At least now she could get away with being an adult with strange interests, even if her heart and mind were still that of a child.

Between her and Oswald, they’d discussed at length how her help with the Lounge would be compensated with a facility of her own one day, one that catered to what she wanted most. But, she understood some form of education would likely be imperative to her thriving. The only thing worse than a child wasting Oswald’s money, was an adult choosing ignorance over fundamental research and learning.

She could only talk up to a certain point with Oswald—or anyone really—before their focus shifted to boredom. Ivy knew the look better than any other. It was a sombre reminder of complacency in the wake of disregard to the planet’s needs. Science and research didn’t captivate as many as she wishes it would.

It was becoming increasingly difficult then to have hatred for Ed. In rehashing her visit to the Sirens (as it was top of mind in her awkward silence with Ed and Selina, all waiting patiently for Lee), dropping a comment about the sorry regard for life under their roof, and Ed agrees.

“It’s not hard to find plants that don’t need light to survive.”

“I know right?” Ivy says with far more excitement than she wants, remembering who she was talking to. She clears her throat, stiffening.

Ed continues, not catching her shift, “even if they replaced those poor dead plants in the corners with dracaenas, their aesthetic effect wouldn’t be ruined. The snake plant in Oswald’s old office is proof they know low-maintenance plants exist.”

Ivy pursed her lips. Oswald be damned, “that was me! I had it put in over the summer, doesn’t it look great? It was so difficult to get him on board. I swear he put it in a closet when I wasn’t around.”

“Exactly where we found it,” Selina confirms.

“Whatever,” Ivy continues giddily, “I was going to work on getting more green in the mansion too, but we never got around to going back there. Have you ever heard of—”

Selina interrupts with a groan, “I’m _so_ glad you guys are getting along and all, but is there a first aid kit you can get me before you dive into which grass type is your favourite?” She really hadn’t signed up for this, even if she had ample patience for Ivy, it had withered away with the dull pain from being stabbed.

As Ed disappears down a hallway, the front door swings open, slamming against the rubber stopper on the wall, narrowly missing Ivy who’d finally moved into the kitchen area a handful of seconds prior.

The floor creaks as Grundy makes his way to the couch, ignoring the visitors entirely. Lee follows, glancing at the door with a grimace, before gently shutting it. There’s a deep, slow chuckle from the living room as the old TV comes to life, displaying only static.

“At least he’s easy to entertain,” Selina says.

“Is that… Butch Gilzean?” Ivy whispers to Lee as she passes her, on the way to Selina.

“Hello to you too,” Lee chucks her coat onto the table, then sighs looking down at Selina. “Haven’t we talked about you needing to act your age, Selina?”

“I dunno, probably,” Selina grumbles, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “It’s not my fault.”

“Of course not,” Lee says, voice strained in disbelief. She turns to head down the hallway opposite to where Ed had gone, coming back a minute later with a box in hand, and meeting an empty-handed Ed at the same time. “Didn’t trust yourself to do stitches?”

“Pretty sure _she_ didn’t trust me to do them.” Ed’s lip twitches, going into the kitchen to find the clean towels and prepare a large bowl of hot water.

“What a shame, he does good work,” Lee says, shooing Selina’s hand away from her stomach to assess the damage.

“Yeah, on dead bodies, maybe. Plus, I don’t know what side you’re all on,” Selina flinches as Lee touches the bruising around the cut. “Wasn’t really in the mood for further injury.”

“Who did this to you?” Lee gives a smile of thanks as Ed places the bowl and towels on the table. Selina rolls up the side of her shirt, securing it underneath the elastic band of her sports bra. Lee snaps gloves onto her hands, briefly glancing at Ivy.

“Victor Zsasz,” Ivy blurts out when Selina hesitates in answering. “He surprised us behind the GCPD.”

Selina hisses at her to _shut up_ as Lee starts to clean up the area with clean water, then an antiseptic wipe from the box. There’s a couple of minutes of silence, Ivy seeming about to combust from wanting to say _a lot_ , and Selina trying to convey how _that’s a bad idea_ with a single look.

“So, GCPD?” Lee says, pulling out what appears to be a gel pen from the box. Selina furrows her brow, wanting to question it, but realizes she has bigger problems when the story of their evening bursts out of Ivy like a dam previously in distress.

Selina gapes, as every small insignificant detail, to large, potentially lucrative leverage is left out in the open for Ed and Lee to use. Ivy runs out of breath, finishing with a, “at least Ed’s gone up in my books. He likes plants, did you know that?”

“Ivy, I can’t believe you just… that’s just… shit. We could’ve _used_ this.” Selina glances over at Ed, tailbone nestled against the table, facing away from them. Did all of this really have no effect on any of them? No shock and awe? Nothing about Jim or Sofia, or any of this was surprising?

Lee finishes applying the adhesive to Selina’s wound, muttering out a, “I guess you two have been busy,” as she lifts away from Selina’s stomach.

“That’s it?” Selina shakes her head, not talking about the wound fix. “None of this is important to you? Sofia needs to be knocked down a few pegs. Don’t you want to find out what happened to the boy?”

“Ed?” Lee cants her head in the direction she’d retrieved her kit. Ed pushes off the table, headed towards it without further direction. Ivy moves to follow him but doesn’t get very far when a child comes barrelling down into the kitchen, Ed following behind him.

Selina hastily lowers her shirt as he rounds the corner, glancing from Ivy to Selina before deciding they weren’t nearly as interesting as Grundy and the TV. Lee cleans up the mess on the table with Ed’s help, while the TV comes to non-staticky life, briefly featuring the news, before flipping to kid-friendly cartoons.

“He’s alive?” Selina slips off the chair, hushed anger as she follows Lee around the kitchen. “He’s been _here_ the whole time?”

“Oswald thought this was the best place for him to be,” Lee shrugs, walking back into the dining area to run a fresh, hot towel along the kitchen table.

Selina wanted to ask _‘with people who hate him?’_ but she realizes she didn’t need to, the answer was in the question itself. It was a half-decent plan, except for the eventuality of everything being found out.

Selina’s edges bristled, coming down from the adrenaline high of the last few hours, a massive weight had come off her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how much of a burden it had been. A benign tumour plaguing her thoughts at every turn, a sign hung over her head: _‘Kid Killer’_. By association, yes, but guilt was a wretched and cruel thing even if she hadn’t been the executor.

She sniffled, defences lowered enough for Lee to catch it, before being bordered up again. Selina’s lip quivers, dropping the conversation with Lee to make a beeline for the couch. She drops down into the seat next to Martin, knocking her knee against his.

“Remember me?” She asks.

Martin pulls out a smaller pad from his pocket, lately used in place of a massive one around his neck. He draws out four figures in a simple looking car, pointing at the one he’s put cat ears on.

Selina nods, “I’m sorry, Martin. I never wanted you to get hurt. I didn’t think anything like that was going to happen.”

Maybe Selina appears a lot more choked up about this than she’s letting on, because suddenly Martin is hugging her and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

He sits back in the couch after several seconds of unreciprocated hugging. Then he rolls up his sleeves, pointedly inspecting his arms, and lifts his legs in a show of how everything is functioning one-hundred-percent, before writing something new on the pad under the picture, turning it to her, _‘I’m okay.’_ He tears the page off, scribbling more, _‘I think you need better friends.’_

“Well, I do have better ones.” Selina twists her head, wagging a thumb towards Ivy. “She’s a good one.”

Martin gets up on the couch, turning fully around with his knees on the cushions to look at Ivy. She covers the short distance in a few steps, squatting down to be at eye-level with Martin. She outstretches her arms, about to encircle them around him, but Martin scrunches his nose, tilting away from her.

“Oh yes, right, I’m covered in dirt,” she chuckles, retracting her arms to rest on her knees. “I’m Ivy Pepper, nice to meet you.”

Martin signs ‘ _hello’_ , as Lee had told him some days prior if it’s too exhausting to continue using the pad, use what’s comfortable. Ivy signs back, ‘ _what are you watching?’_

_‘A story about a sponge who lives in a pineapple.’_

“You know sign language?” Ed asks, appearing behind her. “Martin, feet off the couch, we’ve talked about this.”

Martin huffs but turns around anyway, arms crossed as his back lands against the cushion.

“I met a deaf kid in the Narrows when Selina was preoccupied with billionaire boy. I only know so much.” Ivy says, standing fully.

“We only started with Martin a few months ago, but he’s definitely surpassed Ed with it,” Lee pats Ed’s shoulder. “You two are welcome to stay by the way. Ivy, if you want to get cleaned up I can round up some extra clothes for you.”

“No thanks.” Selina says as Ivy goes, “that would be great!” Ivy’s smile makes Selina’s irritation waver, grumbling out, “fine, sure, whatever.”

“Great, we’re going to fully work out the kinks to getting Oswald out of Arkham, and you’ve both been enlisted to help,” Lee hands Martin a juice box over his shoulder, he gives her a toothy smile, signing ‘ _thanks’_ before taking it.

“You didn’t even ask,” Selina points out, tone bored. “I guess if this pays off my hospital bill, huh?”

“Yes and well… it’ll make more sense tomorrow.” Lee leaves the room, coming back with blankets, towels, and an extra set of clothes for Ivy.

Selina is grateful for the warmth that comes with being in the setting she’s in, even if every time Grundy laughs it makes the hair on her arms stand on end. She watches more of the cartoon with Martin, who has snuggled up closer to her. A cleaned up Ivy eventually rejoins them, while Lee and Ed are standing side by side, whispering in the kitchen. Judging by Lee’s crossed arms, and Ed rolling his eyes repeatedly, it isn’t a particularly fruitful conversation.

Eventually, a luxury of ease and comfort overtakes her, when Ivy and Martin are communicating silently. They grow bored of TV and the three of them take turns playing _rock, paper, scissors_. Selina desperately wants to find it juvenile, but she’s still overwhelmed Martin is alive at all, and knows not all kids are expected to grow up as fast as she has.

“Ivy, how’d you cave _that_ bad?” Selina perks up, chin in her palm, while Ivy and Martin have migrated to thumb wars. Martin is winning. Ed reminds them at some point not to give him a bigger head than he already has.

“Oh come on, she was looking at us like we were about to be grounded for a month,” Ivy says, tongue sticking out as Martin wins again.

“You are closer to her in age than I am!”

“Not true, I’m still two years younger than you.”

Selina waves her hand up and down Ivy’s frame, “yes, because that’s so clear!”

“Martin, have you ever watched 13 Going on 30?” Ivy asks, he shakes his head no.

“No, absolutely not happening,” Selina says with a whine.

“Only because Martin needs to go to bed, but maybe tomorrow,” Lee weaves around the couch, extending her hand to a pouting Martin. “You’ll see them in the morning, Martin.”

Lee spends what seems like an eternity trying to get Martin to sleep, clearly wired from having so many occupants in the house. At some point, she comes out flustered, throws a book at Ed and tells him to read it to him because she’d rather go sleep for a year.

Selina and Ivy are unsuccessful in not laughing at how disgruntled Ed looks.

“This is too normal,” Selina mentions to Ivy, when no one else but Grundy is within earshot, although judging by his repeatedly twitching leg and obnoxious snoring, he’s not listening. “Riddler, the babysitter.”

Ivy shrugs, assured, “it’s not like it’s going to last.”

Selina considers it, realizes with all the factors involved, this was truly the most normal it could be. A temporary reprieve from reality. Everything always seemed to deteriorate in record speeds when it was good. She knew this intimately.

* * *

Edward prides himself on being certain. If it’s calculatable, an un-swayed variable amidst factors with defined characteristics which could lead to a specific, certain end resolution, with a high chance of an outcome he could be the one to decide, it’s what Ed searches for.

Initially, Oswald had been a guess. Experiment building up to his prime. Ed was lingering for the ride, went to the top in stride. Had a friend. Looked at love in a way that didn’t sit right. Found love that checked a box. Lost a short-lived sentiment. Suffered betrayal. Lost a friend.

Grieved in a way that only drugs could subside. Became anew.

Ed and Lee decide this morning’s venture to Arkham would be without the theatrics, since it was imperative to now give the illusion they didn’t care if Sofia knew they were still visiting Oswald. Considering Ed’s previous visit was in the same fashion, it made sense to continue the trend. 

Ed hijacks a vehicle from a group of teens who’d no doubt done the same thing with the legitimate owner earlier.

It was growing increasingly difficult to ignore the tension and anxiety filter over his every day. _‘I do enjoy you taking my advice and going to see him, Eddie.’_

“This isn’t me _taking your advice_ , this is to let him know we have Ivy,” Ed hisses, refusing to signal as he peels away from the curb.

_‘I find your refusal to see how time with Oswald provides a certain comfort, a little old, don’t you?’_

Ed ignores it, continues to do so all the way through the gates, the entrance doors, the various guards and scans, the clattering of opening and closing bars, and thinks nothing of its entire, abrupt absence when Oswald sits down across from him.

Oswald appears _tired_ and unbearably stiff in the chair. The guard nods his head at the handcuffs, and Ed flicks his right hand towards them. “Yes, of course, remove them.”

Oswald visibly relaxes. It seems as if something has changed in him, although the slow wear and tear of Arkham, in general, would affect anyone’s morale. Ed knows stress can detrimentally affect one’s immune system, and his expression softens. He wishes he hadn’t been so brash his last visit.

“I found Ivy,” Ed says, when the silence between them becomes too much. Oswald’s reverted back to waiting for Ed to talk first. It bothers him in a way he can’t decrypt but knows this can’t last.

“Is she okay?”

Oswald’s first instinct to ask him about her well-being instead of what it could mean for his escape, tacks itself onto Ed’s list of proving Oswald capable of being selfless, uncalculatable.

“Yes, of course.” Ed shifts in the chair. He needs to make it _better_ between them. He still doesn’t fully grasp this pull he has for Oswald, but it’s there and it’s magnetic, and he needs Oswald to understand he has an ally. And friend, of course. Ed was okay with that.

Then Ed opens his mouth, closes it, does this several more times before Oswald interrupts him before he can get anything out. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Apologize.”

“Why?”

“Apologies don’t change the past. We have both been adrift in this mess for too long, I believe actions speak louder moving forward, don’t you?”

Ed’s breath catches, clearing his throat before nodding, “I’d be grateful.”

*

Oswald prides himself on being unapologetic. He knows he’s been crafted in this way as it better suits his goals. It doesn’t mean there hasn’t been room for contrition, but there is a weakness in apologies. At least, this was his line of thinking prior to Martin, prior to many events. Saying _sorry_ was proving to be impossible to circumvent. Being unapologetic was synonymous with unchanging, and adaptability was truly the less foolish asset.

If it's what Ed needs for them to pave a path forward, to gain more certainty of Oswald’s intentions, maybe he needed to change what he thought deserved pride.

Oswald places a tentative finger to one of Ed’s, one within reach. “I realize this is entirely contradicting of my earlier statement, but I am sorry, Ed. For everything that transpired. For your subsequent pain and grief. I suppose us moving forward involves giving up a fair bit of bravado.”

It should be entirely infinitesimal, Ed running his finger along Oswald’s in understanding and mutual assurance, but it felt like moving mountains. It made everything else obsolete, the sounds around them, the past, the future. Leaving only the present, only the shared space between them.

Oswald gave a smile, something pure and genuine, solely for him. Everything slowed. It unravelled something deep inside Ed he hadn’t realized was wound up to begin with. He didn’t think about how he should give a smile back until it was too late, and Oswald had already withdrawn his hand, smile gone.

“Is this the only reason you came?” Oswald asks, gaze shifted to the half-asleep guard.

“No,” Ed wants him to look at him, to see that smile again. “We’re close. All the caterers are nearly lined up.”

“She came to see me,” Oswald says, continues before Ed can drop a _who?_ “Sofia, I mean. She offered me freedom.”

“With a cost, no doubt.”

“I’d need to leave Gotham.”

Ed pauses, waits to see if Oswald will say it first, but he doesn’t, “it’s too high of a price. Surely I don’t need to tell you that.”

“I know, but it would be better for Martin,” Oswald coughs, it stabs at Ed’s worry. “Wouldn’t it be safer to take Sofia’s offer?”

“She’ll kill you immediately,” it’s blunt but it’s true, and it would be naïve to think otherwise. “Plus, I didn’t realize Oswald Cobblepot took safe routes.”

Oswald peers at him via his peripheral, with a hint of a smirk, “you would be quite right, my friend.”

Ed uses the rest of the time to talk about the nightmarishly packed apartment and Martin. Mentions they should have more concrete plans before end of day. Makes it sound like they’re planning a party instead of a well-executed breakout.

Ed is much more elated by the time he leaves, opposite to how he felt when he’d shown up. Time with Oswald was very much a comfort—

_‘Didn’t I say that?’_

Pause, Ed trying to keep his mind blank.

_‘Oh, don’t be like that. Tell me Ed, how did it feel?’_

Ed sighs, hand on the car door. He traces a finger along the handle, considers the last hour and how quiet it had been. There’d been no voice to quell, no stress, no elevated heart rate safe for the twenty seconds Ed thought he might be on fire.

_‘Don’t you get it yet?’_

Thinks it. Considers it. Says it out loud for internalized effect, “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get this out before year-end, thank you continuing to read, and I hope 2019 brings you so much joy.


End file.
